


See What We Can Be When We Press Fast Forward

by Edwardina



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Lap-sitting, M/M, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris winds up on Chord's lap during the Glee Live! tour.  A lot. Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, of course, by That Picture Where Chris Is On Chord's Lap.
> 
> Thanks so much to Kate for the encouragement, cosmic guidance, and for looking this over so helpfully.

After Chris turned twenty-one, he went into full-on party mode.

Well, his full-on party mode was probably nothing like most people's. He still had work mode, and he took care not to get alcohol poisoning so he wouldn't slip into coma mode followed by shocking celebrity death mode. There was work mode, oh yes; he was a champ at that. But now that he was totally legal, he could go out to bars with the rest of the cast and crew after shows. He had been pining for it last year. Adulthood? Nah, not so much. But hanging out with everybody, yes! Shenanigans! So, yes. He went a _little_ overboard his first week in party mode. His trailer back on the _Glee_ set was the home of impromptu dance parties, and now he was the first one who said, "Where are we going and how drunk are we getting?" every night.

Other than Cory, the _Glee_ cast liked them some dranks.

Almost everyone, including George Lopez for some reason, got him some form of alcohol for his birthday and Chris was quick to get experimental.

Darren was full of beer recommendations and he described them with words like "nutty" and "hoppy" – which were very Darren-esque words to Chris's ears – and they would ask about local brews at restaurants, give them a try, and sometimes trade if Chris wasn't into his draft.

"Too wheaty? This tastes amazing. Oh, dude, it's such a dark brew, but it's got this caramel aftertaste, try it."

They went bar-hopping after a couple of shows, high on adrenaline and completely unable to even consider sleeping till well after last call, and people bought Chris drink after drink – the guys, the girls, crew members, and a couple of times, random men who looked at Chris in a way that was mildly uncomfortable and made him glad to have his bodyguard. He split gigantic fruity drinks with Ashley and Amber and everything was so funny, and spinny and woozy and hot. Chris was such a lightweight that he got way drunker way faster than anyone else and went through about a million different shades of pink and red, each one of which seemed to be pointed out by someone. It was a blast. Between work (stacked quadruple-high, just the way he liked it) and play and bunches of new things to try out, Chris was having the time of his life.

It was awesome to be able to go out, but actually, it was even more fun to stay in.

Mark had a drink app on his phone and would read the names of drinks out loud to everyone on the plane, and they'd all shout "Giiirrrl driiiink!" or "Yes! Those will get you tanked!"

"I can't not do one called 'Gold Bomb.' I just can't. I have to do a Gold Bomb," said Chris. It sounded disgusting but it gave him throbbing visions of Lady Gaga dressed as a gold disco ball, suspended mid-air above a solid black dance floor, exploding golden glitter all over the place, and that was just too amazing, and Ashley agreed, so they found Red Bull and Goldschläger cinnamon schnapps – which had tiny flecks of actual gold swirling around inside it, making Chris say, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" – and got Gold Bombed. Splitting a Red Bull, they also got Glitter Bombed. Oh, it was all kinds of irresponsible.

In small gangs (usually made up of his bodyguard, the girls, and once or twice, a couple of the Warbler guys), all with sunglasses and smiles on, Chris ventured out in unfamiliar cities and managed to find liquor and things to mix with it every other day so he could try everybody's favorites. And all the ones that sounded delicious. And all the ones that sounded explicit.

He was talking at the top of his voice with Jenna and Ashley about Screaming Orgasms when his room got a noise complaint and Ryan caught wind of it all.

"I heard through the grapevine that you've been partying," Ryan said, when Chris answered his phone mid-Eat My Cherry, and Chris darted a wide-eyed look Ashley's way.

"Yeah, yeah, a little bit, yeah. People keep buying me drinks," said Chris. Ashley clasped his free hand. She was drunker than he was, but he was definitely getting there.

Ryan sounded minorly displeased, hidden behind a veneer of magnanimous as hell.

"Well, Chris, you're not the little boy who auditioned for me anymore. I know you just turned twenty-one and it's very exciting to go clubbing with everyone right now, so I'm not going to stop you. I want you to have a good time, but I want you to just be extraordinarily careful because of who you are. You're a role model, you know? And I hope you're never late for rehearsal because you've been partying all night."

"I promise you, Ryan, I will never be late for rehearsal," said Chris in his gravest tone.

They hung up, and it took about ten continuous seconds of Ashley making increasingly weird faces to shake him out of feeling like a scolded child and crack him up.

Ashley was his staple drinking buddy – she was up for anything anytime, and was the most hysterically funny – but others drifted in and out.

Kevin and Jenna climbed aboard the go-train for several nights. Heather joined them once and they put on some kind of R&B with a nasty beat and she and Chris ground on each other in increasingly inappropriate degrees, to much jeering and egging, and then Kevin eased up behind Chris, grabbed his hips, and basically dry-humped him, and Jenna got nasty on Kevin, and Ashley had a borderline Katy Perry moment with Heather, and the epic sandwich of writhing without "Push It" playing in the background immediately went down in tour history.

Naya was great, too. Naya had a huge stash of drinking games up her sleeve, so they played a bunch of stuff with arbitrary rules, taking directions from phone screens and playing cards and forgetting whose turn it was. Chris loved drinking games. Together, Chris and Naya were kind of an unstoppable peer-pressure machine.

He'd never felt so totally included. Everyone was stuck together most of the time and yet everyone kept coming to his room to party, and everyone had their guard down, including Chris.

One night Mark, Kevin, Harry, and Chord joined Naya, Ashley, and Chris for a round of vodka shots chased with whatever they could each scrounge up, ranging from sodas out of vending machines to pomegranate juice from the minibar. They all crowded onto Chris's bed, which was king-sized but still too small, and Chord and Mark spilled onto the floor, and Chris put on Animal Planet and said, "Here we go. Animal Planet drinking game. Lay down the rules, Naya. Go."

"One shot for every time they show a commercial for Shark Week," said Naya immediately. Over the chorus of groans, she shouted, "Including! Including the little Shark Week logo that swims across the screen during the show! Sorry, babies."

"You're insidious," Chris said appreciatively.

"Yes, I am," Naya responded with an unrepentant smile.

"One shot for every time you see something that grosses you out so much you can't look at it," Ashley threw in.

"Do a shot every time something's, like, really sped up, or you know, really slowed down," Chord said.

"Oh, damn, that's good," Chris said.

"Every time something's CG," said Harry.

"Every time something kills something else," Kevin said.

"Every time the narrator sounds like he's saying something deep about life, but he's really just talking about lions humping and whatnot," said Mark.

Vodka was pretty new for Chris, as was doing shots. Experiencing how each drink seemed to affect him was like the most fun science experiment of all time. Vodka seemed to him very purist, like swallowing rubbing alcohol without the sweet aftertaste rum had. And... burny. Vodka was very burny.

In lieu of actual shot glasses, everyone had glasses from their bathrooms, and luckily, Chris had gotten the "big-ass" sized bottle of vodka. It circulated around so many times he lost track of who was pouring shots for who and if they were going by a regulation sized shot or how many he'd done so far; Mark's evil prompt about the narrator seemed to warrant a shot every time there was narration at all, and Naya's Shark Week rule had been, of course, genius. Chris vigorously chased each shot he downed with a glug from a can of Diet Coke, for a tinge of the familiar, and was past tipsy into actual all-consuming drunk in record time.

Harry bailed after fifteen minutes, moaning, "I'm already regretting this. Oh my God. You people are nuts. If you do a shot every time you see a dead animal you are going to _be_ those dead animals and I will have to do like seven shots just looking at you tomorrow!"

Chris exploded. He threw himself forward laughing and fell off the bed in a tumble.

"AND HE'S DOWN," announced Ashley.

"Dude, he's just giggling face-down on the floor," he heard Mark say. Mark was basically too cool to be a hysterical laugher, but he always cooled up the party by like a million invisible cool points. Chris was the complete opposite.

"I'm a WILD BEAST," said Chris into the carpet. He'd meant to say "wildebeest" and then follow it up with "carcass" but it hadn't worked out. This cracked him up even further.

Naya said, "New rule. One shot for every time Chris literally cannot stop laughing."

"Shouldn't someone, you know, help him up?" Chord asked.

Chris shouted, trying to work his mouth in a clumsy jumble, "Shot for every time Chord says, 'You know'!"

"Oh, no, we are all in trouu-bllleee," Kevin lamented.

Chris couldn't really feel anything but the funny burn of carpet against his hot cheek and all his limbs tingling. A shape was nearby; he felt his arm being tugged and focused in on the feet planted on either side of his hips.

It was Chord. He could tell by the shoes. Chord had these hilarious sneakers, white and puffy, like... something Kanye or some hip-hop artist would wear in a weird music video where everything was white and puffy. Chris inarticulately grabbed at the over-sized tongue of one of them and gave it a testy squeeze.

"Untie and I will tickle you," Chord gravely said, rolling Chris over and hitching him up by the shoulders with a grunt.

With Chord's arms ducking under his own and wrapping around him, the threat suddenly seemed like a totally real possibility, and his alcohol-saturated brain cells all told Chris in red alarm urgency that Chord was about to tickle him to death. He squirmed automatically, half off the floor, trying to defend his sides.

"Oh my God, I'm so ticklish – please don't, Chord, please, please don't," he pleaded, or something like that.

"I won't, just come on. Grab me," Chord said, and Chris obediently slung an arm around Chord's neck as he was hauled to his feet.

"Thank you, Bam-Bam. You're so strong," said Ashley over-affectionately, rubbing Chris's hair, then Chord's as Chord staggered upright, hugging Chris around the middle.

For a weird moment, Chris stared up, unfocused, at Chord's face... at his sandy hair sticking up with its awkward blond highlights matching the shadow of fuzz he could see around Chord's jaw... and became abruptly ten times drunker and dizzier, knees going utterly weak.

Chord caught him before he could go back down totally in the weird attack of dizziness.

"Whoa," said Chord, echoing the _America's Funniest Home Videos_ audience response of the room at large.

"I have never been this drunk," Chris gasped. He was kind of shocked.

His body had become completely stupid, dead weight he couldn't control; Chord was the only solid thing in the whole entire world, and Chris was pressed up against him entirely, sternum to knee, leaning, clinging. Somehow he could barely move but he could still feel how Chord was warmer than warm, body heat bleeding almost damp through his t-shirt, and it was both inviting and alien because... who even was Chord? Right then he was just a fragment of things Chris recognized as Chord: that big pouty mouth everyone always commented on, disastrously highlighted hair... and the sudden cool-musk smell of what was probably aftershave or cologne or something.

It was all just like a smattering of weird puzzle pieces in Chris's brain, like he couldn't piece Chord together in his brain, let alone function. He couldn't even stand. Waves of drunk kept crashing over his brain and melting his spine and burning up through his skin.

They moved – Chord was wordlessly backing up, dragging Chris with him in a stumble towards the unused desk chair. Mark was on his stomach on the floor, yanking the chair out from the desk for him, and Chris thought stupidly, _oh, good, a place to sit_. 

But instead of dumping Chris's drunk ass into the chair, Chord himself slumped back into it with a sigh, Chris not much more than a rag doll in in his arms. He wound up just kind of lying on him sideways, as if Chord was just the chair under him and he was twisting on that chair trying to find a comfortable way to fall asleep.

"Ugh, he looks light but he's not," Chord was complaining, and everybody was laughing, and Chord protested, "He's not!"

"I can't get up, I can't... get up," Chris felt obliged to rasp, his cheek on Chord's shoulder, his arm helplessly dangling. "Oh my God..."

"Reeeeeedddd," slurred Naya. "Red! In! The! Face!"

The world seemed fuzzy and overwhelming, and Chris tried to get up, he did, but his limbs were floppy and disconnected from his control and he didn't even know where they were, exactly. He felt like he was tangled with Chord in some way and unable to summon the strength to fight his way out.

He was abruptly stilled somehow, with one muscular arm around his neck. He heard Chord saying, "You're just gonna fall down. An' I don't think I can pick you up again 'cause I've had, y'know, seven or eight shots. Just sit and let it, y'know, just let it..."

"Wait, are we or are we not taking shots for Chord's chronic overuse of 'you know'?" asked Kevin.

Chris busted up laughing, and couldn't stop to breathe, especially not when he felt an annoyed puff of Chord's breath tickle his ear.

"Two shots," Kevin said, "am I right? Or three, 'cause Chris has lost his mind?"

"Fuck, maybe we should stop," Mark said. He was the only one who sounded remotely sober. Still, it was only remotely. "Colfer's gonna pass out right there on Chordy and nobody's gonna be able to work their phones to get a picture of it."

Ashley full-out snorted, because apparently that's exactly what she was trying to do, and was failing and crying, "IT'S IN GERMAN! WHY IS IT IN GERMAN! WHAT'S GERMAN FOR 'TAKE A PICTURE'?"

Chris, shaking, a stitch in his side, was about two seconds away from peeing in his pants.

"St – Ash – please – stop it," he wheezed. Everything was bendy. Why was Ashley the funniest person he had ever met in his entire life?

"Plus, I think Harry's right, we might all die," said Kevin, deadpan.

Chris had only the vaguest realization that he eventually stopped laughing, though everything felt sore from his convulsions even after he'd stopped, and he must have actually passed out or fallen asleep (was there a technical difference? Because Chris would have preferred to think of it as "decided to take a power-nap") on Chord Overstreet because at one point Mark and Kevin were helping Chord put him to bed (it wasn't that hard, was it? Gravity alone got him onto the mattress) and Ashley was waking him up at some point, patting him on the cheek and telling him in a cut-throat, threatening voice to drink some water and that if he didn't drink this water right now, Ryan Murphy was going to fire him – _FIRE HIM_. That got Chris awake enough to obey for a couple of clumsy sips, but he didn't voluntarily decide to power-nap again mid-sip. He just passed the fuck out.

Eventually he peeled his eyelids open.

There was an alarm going off somewhere nearby.

For a minute Chris's vision just swam, but when it focused, he saw the alarm clock and figured that was the source of the torturous beeping. It seemed like it had been beeping for a long time. Like maybe forever. It took him a couple of tries to get it to turn off. He wanted to go back to sleep so bad. But there was still something letting off an annoying noise. His phone. Somewhere. He didn't know where. He sat up with utmost difficulty.

All around him, his room looked for sure like it had been the scene of a party. There were glasses from the others' rooms still strewn about everywhere, cans of soda, an over-turned waste bin, and a crumpled up pillowcase that had been pulled off one of the pillows and maybe used to mop something up. The desk chair had been dragged and left at an awkward angle. Oddly, even though it was a mess, all his stuff seemed to have been packed up. By, like. House elves. Hotel elves.

Emerging from the bathroom with damp hair, Ashley asked seriously, "You awake? Does your head hurt? Are you going to throw up?"

Chris's stomach was not feeling so great.

"No, I don't think so," he managed hoarsely. "But if I put anything in it, I'll probably throw that up."

To his relief, Ashley picked up his phone and turned the alarm off.

"Sweetie, we have to be on the plane at nine, and we do not want to be late, because I repeat, Ryan will flip. Drink some more water now, and then you can pass out again when we're in the air, okay?"

His stomach gave a sick, flopping squirm at the mere idea of being on a moving plane, taking off – turbulence, stale air, the smell of everybody else, people all around him, being high enough above the planet to see the bend of it. He kind of wanted to throw up _now_. "Oh my God."

"You got pretty drunk, boo!" Ashley said cheerfully.

"Oh my God," moaned Chris. He could feel every hair on his head standing straight up, still stiff with product from the night before. Sickening gooseflesh crawled over him. The part of his brain that was still waking up – the more articulate part – was starting to form thoughts about how he had not realized drinking could do that to him or that this level of embarrassment could exist.

How it was worse than doing "Single Ladies" in front of thousands of people in a leotard and jeans that wanted to slip down his ass every other performance, or worse than rumors of getting killed by a fruit truck, or worse than seeing particularly horrendous pictures of himself thirty pounds heavier and riddled with acne, or worse than Googling himself and seeing the world's cruelest comments, he didn't know, but it just was.

He was used to being the youngest of the group and everyone watching out for him, used to being the innocent yet quippy bystander... but right then he truly felt like everyone's stupid little brother. He had never, never been near that drunk. He had never passed out or required anyone's help to get up or get into bed. He had never not been able to remember large chunks of the previous night, but he had literally no recollection of anything other than Chord hauling him up off the floor.

The most powerful memory he had of the entire party, oddly, was the way Chord smelled. He couldn't have repeated anything anyone had said last night, but he was certain he could identify Chord's cologne in a blind test out of a billion samples.

With shaking hands, Chris rubbed his nose.

He knew Mark wouldn't care; Mark was more into razzing Chord than Chris. For all he knew, he might become even cooler in Mark's book after putting on all this drunk-as-fuck mileage. And Ashley for some reason thought everything he did was amazing (what an awesome friend; she'd even packed his laptop bag up right). And he knew that Naya and Kevin had probably been worse off than him before. At least Chris hadn't woken up with a tattoo, no matter how excusable and relevant the ink. 

But he had gone too far. He felt sick. He felt stupid. The last thing on Earth he wanted to do was get out of bed, go and get on that plane, fly anywhere, and do a whole entire show.

Obeying Ashley's wisdom, which was surely greater than his, he swallowed down some water. It gurgled around inside him in a particularly gross way, and he took a quick, punitively lukewarm shower.

The elevator ride down was semi-nausea-inducing, and he and Ashley, dragging their luggage along behind them, met up with Dianna, Jenna, Harry, and Chord down in the lobby, all checking out.

Chris's insides did not approve of the sight of Harry or Chord. At least Harry didn't look too worse for the wear and he hadn't stuck around long enough to witness Chris's literal downfall, but he still laughed when he saw Chris pathetically slinking towards them; he must've looked as awful as he felt. Chord was wearing aviator shades and a cap that effectively hid most of his hair and face, and didn't seem to really notice Chris at all.

A moment of weakness not entirely dissimilar from the one that had made his knees buckle the previous night made him grab at Ashley's arm.

"What? What's wrong?" she questioned, grabbing him back as if she thought he might fall over or vomit or something.

Shoving his embarrassment about even asking aside, because it was Ashley, Chris asked, "Is Chord mad?"

"Bam-Bam? Mad? What, like, in general? Or at you?"

"Both. Either."

"Not that I know of."

She stared at him, as he still had a grip on her.

"Why you worryin', baby? No one's mad at you. Everybody had fun. Chord did run smack into the door frame on his way out last night, though, so." Ashley laughed. That was, as Chris was discovering, Classic Chord. He seemed to run into something every other day, drunk or not. "Maybe his head hurts."

Chris never got the chance to ask him about it, or apologize for being so drunk he was That Guy That Passed Out and for Chord having to pry and drag him up off the floor, because they were soon in motion. He felt sick the entire way to the airport, and it was easily the worst plane ride he'd ever experienced; his contents shifted, to say the least, and Dianna curled up in the seat next to him, petting his arm soothingly and telling him stories from tour last year – most of which he already knew, but it was nice to be reminded that he wasn't the only one who had ever passed out from one of Naya's drinking games.

Still – sorry, George Lopez! He was never drinking again.

 

 

After his epic hangover flushed out of his system, Chris felt perfectly fine. A third of the cast didn't.

Touritis had finally hit.

This had happened last year, too – it was a tad beyond help. They met a lot of fans, touched a lot of doorknobs, and all shared two dressing rooms and a lot of germs, being cooped up in vehicles together and eating almost all their meals together. At least on normal filming days back on set they were able to get adequate rest in their own beds, eat well and regularly, rest up in their trailers between takes, and go to the doctor, but on tour they were a lot more like sardines in a can.

Darren and Chord, both _Glee_ tour newbs, were hit the hardest, and Lea had to stop singing "Don't Rain On My Parade" to preserve her voice. Darren quarantined himself to the Warbler bus and sang his way through his numbers like a mini-marathon, but saved his voice the rest of the time. Chord looked punch-eyed and miserable, shuffling around like a zombie.

Backstage, Chord slumped, and he was almost a liability onstage. Even at the best of times, Chord often wasn't entirely in-step or aware of his surroundings, but zombie death flu Chord was pretty bad. He almost gave himself a black eye with his own microphone, seemed too dizzy to stand, and looked to have almost no spatial awareness. He ran into people and forgot pieces of the choreography to "Empire State of Mind" and "Somebody To Love," having somehow magically scraped through his duet with Dianna without any major incident. Hauling his duffel bag through the lobby and into an elevator on the way to his hotel room after the show, he looked gutted and kind of like a hospital patient who wasn't supposed to go wandering.

"I feel so bad for Chordy," Ashley lamented, and Chris could tell she meant it. That was one of the many things that he liked about Ashley. She was such a sincere person. And she didn't ask him why he was standing there staring at Chord trying and failing to jam buttons in the elevator from across the hotel lobby. In fact, she was staring right along with him.

"Yeah, he looks pretty terrible."

"We should get him some cold medicine or something, don't you think? And, like, some vitamin C to boost up that immune system? Some nice, invigorating orange juice?"

Chris paused. Ashley had filmed with Chord much more than he had; she knew him better, called him nicknames like all the other girls did. Right, she was a girl, so it seemed perfectly normal for her to show so much concern.

He didn't know why _he_ cared, exactly; it was just that Chord looked so unhappy. So much more so than Darren, who probably also would've appreciated some cold medicine – but then, Darren would have bounced and gotten it himself, or said two charming words to a fan and wound up with a basket of it somehow. It didn't seem like Chord was doing anything but slumping here and slumping there; slumping, slumping everywhere.

Chris said deliberately, "There's a drug store around the corner somewhere, I saw it just before we turned in. We could run down there."

"Okay! Let's do dis. Do you wanna bring some muscle?"

"No, no."

"Then you best get incognito, boy. Break out the fake moustache."

Chris rummaged for his ball cap and sunglasses. He actually did have a fake moustache and goatee, which he enjoyed gluing into his face in a myriad of strange ways. He attracted the most attention, for some reason – perhaps because he was so pale he sparkled like one of the _Twilight_ vampires, or having a high voice was suddenly very in vogue. He didn't dare go out alone.

Adhering to the rule of safety in numbers, they snagged Jenna and Lea after meeting them on the way down, and the four of them together trooped to CVS with Google Maps guiding them. Lea was sick, too, though not as feverishly so as Chord because she was somewhat of a professional at kicking the common cold's ass, but she said she wanted to re-stock on lozenges and get some cotton pads. Jenna just wanted to walk around so her butt would de-numb from the traveling.

At CVS, Chris and Ashley stared at the huge array of medicines on the drugstore shelves and decided a buffet of options would be better than getting something unhelpful, so they went all _Supermarket Sweep_ and grabbed Tylenol, NyQuil, DayQuil just in case, a box of lotiony Kleenex, a few bottles of travel-sized Purell, and after a discussion on whether or not it was pointless since Chord was already sick, a big jug of Minute Maid orange juice.

"If he doesn't want it we can always use it to make Fuzzy Navels," Ashley said slyly.

"Oh, no, no," said Chris darkly. "...Well, maybe."

"Oh my God, are you guys getting sick too?" Jenna asked at the check-out.

"God, I hope not," said Chris. "We just thought Chord – and, uh, Darren – might need some supplies. They don't seem to have brought anything."

"Oh, wow, Chord is so pathetic right now," said Jenna, sounding deeply impressed by the magnitude of pathetic Chord was displaying.

"Yeah, I don't think he knew what to expect out of this whole tour situation," piped Lea. "I know he's a guy and guys become total babies when they're sick, but I can't believe he didn't pack IBU Profen or Advil or something. I always pack that kind of stuff in my little first aid-slash-emergencies-slash-must-haves kit, even if I don't think I'm going to need it. You're just better safe than sorry."

"Kevin told me he was just lying on the dressing room floor after the show, saying it felt good. It grossed him out 'cause it was all dirty and you know, feet, but Chord was just pressing his face against the floor 'cause it was cool or something."

"Oh, gross!"

"Sounds like he needs a literal pick-me-up," said Chris, flashing back to the alcohol-blurry memories his brain had managed to hang onto nevertheless of Chord having pulled him bodily up off the floor.

"Boys are sincerely disgusting," said Lea fervently.

"It's true," said Chris, who could truly appreciate the palpable difference between the girls' and guys' dressing rooms and was glad to be an honorary girl.

It was pushing midnight by the time they all got back to the hotel.

"It's late, don't you think he'll be asleep?" Chris asked Ashley quietly.

"No harm in checking on him either way," she said. "Oh, wait, wait. What room is he in? Do you know?"

"I have no idea. Lea?"

"I can't even remember where I am," Lea answered, and sure enough, she was rooting around in her bag for her room key.

"Wait, hang on, I'll text Kevin and see if he knows," said Jenna. 

Kevin didn't know, but he texted Harry, who remembered Chord's room number from when they were checking in, and they all parted ways at the elevators; Lea was still searching her bag and they left her hoping she hadn't left her room key on her desk or something. Jenna, Chris, and Ashley trooped up to the seventh floor with their plastic CVS bags. Jenna was on the eighth floor and continued on without them.

They found 712 without trouble, but Chris still paused in front of it at length.

"Knock," Ashley directed him.

Chris did, softly, with the backs of his knuckles.

"Louder, Christopher," Ashley said dryly.

"What if we're bothering him?"

"It's because we care about our poor widdle Bam-Bam," said Ashley. Her baby voice might have been nonsensical, but what she was saying was perfectly logical, and years of growing up with a sister that required constant care backed her up so forcefully that Chris felt like he was lurching into a sudden quicksand-like guilt pit for not personally taking care of everybody who had been sick on tour, ever, including Steven Tyler and Alice Cooper. "Boo, if you were sick, I'd bring you Tylenol at two AM."

"Aw, sweetie! I'd bring you Tylenol at two AM too."

It was mid-hug that Chord warily opened the door and stared out at them. He wore a completely vapid expression. His hair seemed to be stuck down damply. One side of his face had a distinct smudge along his cheekbone and jaw, and he was mostly a pale grayish-white except for the places where he was flushed overly-red – his ears, his cheeks. He looked a little bit like he wasn't sure who they were, just staring at them hugging in front of his door wonderingly.

"Honey! We brought you some cold medicine, okay?" said Ashley. "We need to get you better!"

She pushed her way into Chord's room like she owned the place and flipped the lamp on. Chris followed her in an awkward slide past Chord, who was standing there in his boxers. He spotted clothes in heaps on the floor, sunglasses and everything, and Chord's duffel abandoned not far into the room, still all zipped up. The blankets were mussed on one side of the bed, and it looked – as Jenna had aptly put it – so pathetic, like he'd just dropped everything and instantly crawled into bed.

"...Chord?" Chris asked hesitantly.

Chord was just standing there by the door in the dim little foyer, looking phenomenally confused and rooted to the spot; Chris wondered how he'd managed to put together that someone was knocking on his door and wondered if Chord realized he'd answered it in his underwear.

"C'mon, Bam. Let's get some NyQuil in you so you get some good sleep," said Ashley coaxingly. "Look, Chris and I brought you some Kleenex, in case your nose gets runny, Tylenol for your fever which you should take tomorrow morning, DayQuil in case you need that, some hand sanitizer which we want you to use constantly, like constantly, okay, like you have OCD, so you won't go spreading germs. And we brought you some OJ, okay? They say if you have a fever you need to drink lots of fluids."

"Sheez," Chord whispered sluggishly, rubbing his own forehead with one muscular arm.

"I'm gonna pour you some of this NyQuil, okay? Then you can have some orange juice so you won't have that gross NyQuil taste in your mouth," said Ashley. She sounded like she was talking to a toddler. But then, at that moment, even though he was all brawny and in a pair of clingy boxer-briefs, Chord seemed more like a kid than a grown man an entire year older than Chris.

"Here," said Chris, tentatively taking Chord's elbow. Even there his skin was deliriously warm. "Back into bed. You don't have to be standing around. Sorry we woke you up... we just wanted to make sure you had some medicine."

To Chris's surprise, Chord lurched into movement and let Chris lead him slowly back toward the bed. As Chris had been after god knows how many shots of vodka, Chord seemed unsteady, like he couldn't support his own weight as per usual. He pliantly sat when Chris gave him a push and just collapsed against the cushy headboard like he'd collapsed in a seat along the wall between numbers backstage.

"I feel so shitty," he groaned. "I'm missing the whole tour..."

"No, you're not, it's okay! It's just one or two days, tops. We have a ton of shows left," said Chris, pulling the blanket over Chord's lap carefully. He didn't want to creep Chord out or something – he didn't think he could if he tried at the moment, but when Chord was better, Chris didn't want him thinking he was getting too close, touching him too much or on purpose. Nor did he want Chord to think he was fine with just staring at him lying around in his boxers. "We all got sick at some point last year. We'll probably all get sick at some point this year, too."

"Here," said Ashley, handing Chord the plastic cup with that sickly dark green syrup in it. "Down the hatch."

"This stuff gets me drunk," Chord said distantly, staring at the cup, and Chris watched his face slide from reluctance to petulance to an eye-rolling kind of determination. He downed it in one powerful go, like a shot, and handed Chris the emptied cup, looking sick to his stomach. Ashley was immediately there with a glass of orange juice, which Chord sipped at too. He lowered it from his lips so heavily that Chris took the glass from his fingers without Chord having offered it, sensing Chord might spill it.

"Hey. Can you get me a wet washcloth?" he asked Ashley.

"Sure," she said unquestioningly.

Chris smiled at her, and then smiled at Chord in a far more stupid way.

"We'll be outta your hair in a minute."

"I don't normally get sick." Chord rubbed at his nose and whuffled. "Not like this."

"Ah. Tour germs are not like normal germs. They're more like Teenage Mutant Ninja Germs. Pokégerms. Gotta catch 'em all," Chris joked lamely, but Chord didn't seem to hear him.

"'M so hot," he mumbled, looking dissatisfied at the blanket Chris had put on him.

"Sorry. The orange juice is nice and cold. You could have some more of that," Chris said.

Chord seemed to focus a little and nodded, so Chris let him have the glass back. This time he seemed thirstier, and swallowed the whole glass in a few gulps.

"More?"

He got a sleepy nod from Chord, whose tongue was smacking slowly in one corner of his big pink mouth and then the other.

Chris filled the glass and handed it back to Chord; Ashley reappeared with a white washcloth, wet but wrung out so it wasn't dripping all over the place (she was awesome like that). She exchanged it with Chris for the plastic NyQuil cup, then briskly headed back to the bathroom to wash out the lingering green. The washcloth was pleasantly cool. Chord set his drained glass on the bedside table with a clumsy clatter and slid crookedly till his head was pillowed, looking on the skint edge of passing out.

"Okay, so... don't, like, freak out on me or anything," Chris said, sitting his ass gingerly on the very edge of the bed. "I don't want to bother you much more, but you have some gunk on your face from lying down on the floor earlier and I'm just going to get it off real quick."

"'Kay," Chord sighed, and Chris could smell the orange juice on his breath, smell it in the crevices of his lips.

"Sorry," Chris said briskly, dabbing at Chord's cheekbone with an awkward pat of fingers.

It immediately occurred to him that it would make way more sense for Ashley to do this. He could just picture her holding Chord's chin in her hands and commenting about his chipmunk cheeks as she wiped them off effectively. Chris knew he was being too ginger and that he could do a better job than this, if he wasn't so – uncomfortable at the idea of making Chord uncomfortable.

But Chord simply shut his unfocused eyes and exhaled slowly. Chris could feel his fever burning through the damp cloth, warming it and touching his fingers. Some grit and what Chris could only assume was general worldly, oily dirt from a trodden-on stadium floor came away from Chord's cheek and onto the cloth. 

Chris folded it and took a second rub, eying Chord's face carefully for any flicker of annoyance. But if anything, Chord's already slack expression seemed to melt, until Chris thought he might've actually fallen asleep. He drew back slowly.

After a moment, Chord whispered, "Can you do the other side too?"

"The other side... of your face?"

"Yeah."

The other side looked clean, but Chris gamely patted it anyway, and Chord breathed out in such heavy relief that Chris realized it must have felt good, relatively cool on his skin.

"Sorry you have a fever, Bam," he whispered. He never really called most people by the random nicknames they acquired on set, but he felt, like, maternal or Mother Theresa-y or something just then. Taking initiative, he mopped at Chord's forehead, carefully pushing aside sweat-dampened hair, and Chord's head tilted heavily toward him.

It took Chris a few moments to realize that Chord was staring up at him with hooded eyes, sandy lashes mostly obscuring the gaze – but not entirely. Chris's mouth pulled in an automatic smile of apology, but Chord's eyelids lowered into a dreamy, long blink, then lifted again so he could continue to look hazily up at Chris. He might as well have been staring off into a psychedelic fever and NyQuil-fueled fantasy featuring the Grateful Dead bears, his eyes were so vague, and so glazed and unconnected. Chris wasn't sure what was going on in there. He only knew that Chord's eyes were green and he'd never really looked at them long enough to notice until right then. Eventually his eyelids slipped shut again.

"Wanna go to sleep?" Chris suggested kindly.

"Mmph," Chord grunted, voice thick in his throat. "I hate this."

"I know. It's okay. It happens to the best of us."

A sweaty, clammy hand, oddly hot and cold at the same time, clutched Chris's knee. Chris gave it a pat and a friendly little rub with his own hand, which felt small perched atop the row of Chord's knuckles.

The rag was just hanging, warmed through, from Chris's other hand by the time he heard Chord's door open with the typical loud hotel clank. It was Ashley, ice bucket in hand. Chris hadn't even realized she'd left the room; he hadn't noticed her getting the bucket, searching for Chord's room key, or leaving the room. Had she said anything and he just hadn't heard it?

Chris stared at her, feeling slightly warm in the face himself, and she said, "Ice! For the juice. I'm gonna just stick the jug into it, it'll help keep it cold overnight."

"Oh! Very smart," Chris said, watching her set it up and plunk the Minute Maid into the ice with a loud crunch.

"Looks like baby boy's peaced out," she said, squinting as she worked the jug more securely in place. A couple of ice cubes scattered over the side of the bucket and slid along the desk. She chucked them back in.

Chris didn't look down. He could feel how Chord's grip on his knee had gone limp and could hear his short pulls for breath. Homie had peaced, indeed. Carefully, not wanting to disturb him and also not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he was almost holding Chord's hand, Chris slid to the side and up off the bed.

"We better crack open some of this Purell or we're gonna be next," he said.

"Wise words from a _Glee_ tour veteran," said Ashley.

"We should probably check on him in the morning, too. I mean, he's usually one of the last people to trickle out when he's _not_ doped up on cold medicine or staggering around like Frankenstein's monster," said Chris.

But the next morning, Chord didn't answer their knocks on his door, and they discovered through the cast grapevine that he'd gone out for breakfast with Cory, Mark, and Harry. When they reached the venue, they found him there uncharacteristically early, testing his vocals in his headset with the sound guy. His voice sounded thick and low.

Ashley didn't hesitate to solicitously swan up to him to ask if he'd taken his Tylenol and how he felt (she even pressed the inside of her wrist to his forehead to test his fever), but Chris hung back, Chewie on his shoulders. He pretended to be preoccupied with his phone. Chord looked way more normal and Chord-like than he had last night – less sweaty and in his underwear and foggily allowing Chris to be his nurse, and more, um... upright. It was suddenly strange to think Chord had gripped his leg and looked up at him like he had. It gave him the weird impulse to hide.

"Yeah, I drank most of it when I woke up," Chord was telling Ashley. "I woke up _so_ thirsty, and it was just there, like magic!"

He didn't look at Chris, so Chris didn't look at him – he found Dianna and headed to the girls' dressing room with her, clutching his backpack's furry legs around his middle.

Chord sat out the group numbers that night so he wouldn't knock into anyone, and Chris spotted him conscientiously rubbing his hands together backstage, then tucking a mini-bottle of Purell into his pocket.

 

 

No matter how careful they were, at some point, everyone caught zombie tour flu, or some variation of it – some worse than others. Chris, never one to half-ass anything, was royally ill.

True to her word, Ashley brought him Tylenol. In exchange for the gesture of friendship, Chris did not throw up on her shoes.

He refused to sit out the show, which seemed quite doable while the arena was empty except for the crew and employees scuttling around. But during the concert, Tylenol or no, the arena became a vortex of claustrophobic black space that ironically seemed to stretch on forever in a sea of backup dancers, security, and people – so many people, so many flashing cell phones and cameras, it was like looking into outer space and getting extreme vertigo. It became overwhelming and trippy.

The music throbbed around his body like it was a physical muscle, heated and pressurized. He just about swatted away everyone who suggested sitting out on his solo, just this once. He kept saying, "No, no. I'm a ninja." It made sense to him, but it didn't seem to make sense to anybody else. Didn't they _know_ he was a ninja?? Didn't anyone think he could do this?

During "Slave 4 U," the beat of which was knocking him around like a carnival ride with violent turns, Chris was clutching an innocent trash can between his knees, and someone touched his shoulder.

It was Chord. He knew it not by sight, but by his gut, like Chord let off some kind of particular vibe that was unlike anyone else's. Chord's hand slid to the middle of Chris's sweaty back and patted it awkwardly.

"Can I help?" he asked.

Chris shook his head wildly. His vague case of nerves about the possibility of vomiting onstage and/or butchering his solo was only twisting his stomach up more. He didn't dare open his mouth right then.

Chord paused, then just patted him for a few moments, casual – and weirdly, that did kind of help. He didn't say anything, but Chris could feel the sympathy in the touch the same way he had known it was Chord at his side in the first place. Chord knew what it was like to be slumping backstage, miserable, not wanting to screw anything up and not wanting to miss a moment of the whole show. Chris breathed steadily, eyes squeezed shut, and centered himself against the beat of Heather's number.

Then Chord's cue for "Fat Bottomed Girls" came up and he was gone, jogging toward the steps, stagehands ushering him urgently, and Chris took another deep inhale.

It was probably impossible in an arena full of sweaty people, with he himself sweating through his costume, but he thought he could smell the scent Chord had left lingering by him over everything else. He closed his eyes. That was it, part of Chord's aura. He knew Chord by smell.

That night, he should have slept every spare second he could, but instead he sat in bed feeling sorry for himself and multitasking on his computer between two windows: his word processor and the internet. His browser had several Wikipedia tabs open, one reluctant Web MD tab, two eBay tabs, and one Netflix instant stream tab, because for some reason, he just really wanted to watch _Muppet Treasure Island_. And also write. And look at collectibles and weaponry on eBay. All at the same time. He was sadly aware that a good chunk of the cast had gone out adventuring; it felt a little like it had when he was twenty and ineligible for legal fun and missing out on something, only worse, 'cause he was alternating between aching fever and chills.

Ashley was sick as well – as was much of the cast – so when a knock came on his door, he thought oddly that it must be a maid or something because he wasn't sure who else it could be. He'd hung his _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the knob and everything, and they were all checked in under false names (which varied according to their humors) so fans couldn't find them, and most of the time they didn't even know each other's room numbers.

He paused _Muppet Treasure Island_.

Another knock.

Chris tipped reluctantly into motion, dragging himself up and padding to his door. One eye at the peephole showed a guy in a black ball cap looking down the hall and biting down on his own mouth.

Chris fumbled at the knob of his door and it gave a heavy click as he opened it.

"Hi?" he said awkwardly.

"Hi," Chord echoed.

For a moment, they just stood there, Chris increasingly aware that he had not been expecting to see anyone that night, and as weird as he often had to dress for the show and do things like struggle into leotards backstage and stuff, being just plain slobby in sweatpants and a t-shirt stretched from when he'd weighed twenty more pounds than he did now, ill and watching a Muppets movie all alone was... lame.

Chord looked nervously to the side again. "Can I come in for a second? There's a couple people staring at me."

"Oh, sure," said Chris automatically, moving back and letting Chord in quick. 

Chord was dressed nicely – not in comfortable plane clothes or nylon running pants, but in jeans and boots, which looked kind of funny with his blazer, ball cap, t-shirt, and the metal guitar pick he was wearing on a chain around his neck. He'd probably been out with everyone else, fitting into a cozy set of pushed-together tables and eating at whatever sushi restaurant was willing to stay open extra-late for them, or visiting whatever sports bar with Cory and Mark so they could talk about all that kind of guy stuff to their hearts' content.

Chord waited politely in the room's tiny foyer as Chris closed the door, chaining it for good measure.

"So, like, I know... you probably have stuff, but I brought you something," he said, making Chris realize he had a little plastic bag dangling from his fingers. He added, "Mark recommended it to me, so I thought I'd recommend it to you, since you, like... you know, you took care of me when I was super-sick."

"Oh!" Chris said, like an idiot. A wave of chills hit him, making his voice tremor on its own. "H-How thoughtful!"

"It's this Emergen-C stuff? You mix it with water." The plastic bag rustled as Chord dug out a blue box. It said IMMUNE DEFENSE in large letters, and Chris took it when Chord offered it to him. "It's not bad. Mark said he's been taking it every day and hasn't been sick at all. I don't see how, except this, pretty much, 'cause we've all been around him and we've all been sick. But I've been taking this stuff the last couple days and I feel a lot better."

"Oh, awesome," said Chris. His voice, sludgy as it seemed to want to be, still rang out too high and false. "Thank you!"

"There's like, five boxes in here," said Chord, and handed him the bag as well. Chris peered into it and spotted a receipt poking out from between the boxes.

"Did you buy all th-this for me?"

"Well –" For a second, the question seemed to stymy him. "You bought me a ton of stuff. I have, like, a million bottles of cold medicine now."

"True," said Chris, and pushed past his vague sense of embarrassment. "Better to have too much than too little."

"That's what I thought," said Chord, smiling.

"Well, thanks. I'll put it to the test in the morning."

"Cool."

They stood there – Chris cold, goosebumps on his arms, and Chord silent, looking around at a room which was surely almost identical to his. Chris couldn't quite land on what to say now. He was both genuinely touched and embarrassed that Chord had returned the favor and brought him something; he remembered Chord patting him on the back during the show and offering to help, but he hadn't once thought Chord actually meant it beyond polite social nicety. This was Ashley-level considerate.

"I didn't wake you up?" Chord asked. Chris twisted at the middle to look at his lair of misery, with his propped up pillows and bottles of Diet Coke and Tylenol and his laptop with its glowing screen.

"No, no. I was watching a movie on Netflix."

"You have good internet in here? Mine's slow as hell."

"Oh. Apparently I do. Maybe I'm sucking up the internet," Chris said self-consciously, setting his Emergen-C stash on the desk.

"What're you watching?"

" _Muppet Treasure Island_."

Chord laughed at him incredulously. "You're kidding."

"Sadly, no. But don't laugh. It's a really underrated Muppets movie with a Hans Zimmer score and Tim Curry at his Tim Curry-est, playing Long John Silver. Also Jennifer Saunders is in it."

"Oh yeah, no, I know _Muppet Treasure Island_. We had a bunch of Disney at my house. Like, everything Disney. I used to watch it when I was, like, seven or eight – we had it on tape. But I haven't seen it since then. Everything went to DVD and we never got it on DVD for some reason."

"Me too," said Chris. He was surprised at having something so random in common with Chord, but the desire to get under the blankets was overtaking him physically, so he made a move for his bed. "You'll have to forgive me," he huffed, feeling pink. "I really don't want to fall on the floor and have to have you haul me into bed again. It was embarrassing enough the first time."

He slithered a bit and yanked his blanket up his body while Chord just stood there and stared at the pearlescent striped wallpaper.

"You probably got sick being in my room," he finally said, though Chris couldn't tell if the accusing note in his voice was pointed towards Chris or towards himself.

"Nah," said Chris. "Mark probably got me sick. He deflected all the germs at me with his impenetrable vitamin C s-shield."

Chord laughed, "It's _this_ ," and did a fairly good, spastic impression of Mark's trademark double-armed crotch-chop, which made Chris laugh shakingly too.

There was another semi-awkward pause.

"Well... uh, you're welcome to join me for _Muppet Treasure Island_ if you want," said Chris, "but I don't want to re-infect you, and you probably wanna get some sleep."

"Nah, I'll watch some," said Chord gamely. "I kind of want to see the bit where they all go crazy on the boat."

"Why, do you relate?" Chris asked, getting another huffy laugh out of Chord as he pulled his blazer off one arm at a time. He slung it over the back of Chris's desk chair as he rounded the bed to climb onto the other side of it, keeping a polite distance. A third party could have easily fit between them.

"It's just getting good. AKA, to Fozzie," said Chris, pushing his computer forward into that space between them so Chord could see the screen too. "Adjust as needed."

Chord reached out and pushed the monitor a bit, and Chris abruptly smelled him – even through his stuffed nose. He almost opened his mouth to ask Chord what he was smelling, what cologne he wore or aftershave he used, or deodorant, or whatever, but stopped himself. Too creepy. 

"Good? Can you still see?"

"Mm!" said Chris, not wanting to open his mouth at all.

It wasn't that unlike watching something with Ashley – weird for about thirty seconds, then abruptly comfortable as it all sank in.

Why couldn't they just watch a movie? Chris asked himself. They shared the same job, did the same dance routines on the same stage, flew on the same plane... just because Chord wasn't his boyfriend on the show... it didn't mean they couldn't hang out...

Chris's eyelids were drooping before they had been watching for five minutes, probably. Next thing he he knew, he was pushing a load of hot blankets off him, sweating and miserable, and the lamp on the bedside table was still on and Chord was still there, only he'd fallen asleep, too, ankles and arms crossed, hands tucked into his own armpits a la Mary Catherine Gallagher, cap and shoes still on. The movie was over and his laptop's screen dark, in energy-saver mode.

Chris's fuzzy gaze lingered on Chord's dark blond sideburn, just visible by his ear and the tuck of his cap. Then he fell asleep again, this time heavily.

When he woke up next it was morning, his cell phone alarm was ringing, his laptop was on his desk and shut, and the blankets had been draped tentatively back over his side. Chord was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning Emergen-C became part of Chris's routine, and he bounced back to admirable health in three or so days, which enabled him to literally bounce on stage.

He shared his stash with Ashley, who seemed to think he'd gotten a tip from Mark about it (which was close enough) and gone out to get some for himself (which was a far cry from the truth).

For whatever reason, he didn't just cheerily say, _Chord gave it to me! You know, since we brought him Tylenol and stuff, he thought he'd return the favor, I guess!_ Maybe Ashley would be offended that Chord hadn't brought her some too. Or maybe he was just embarrassed.

It was just funny, in retrospect, that Chord had actually opted to return the favor, and that they had sat in a room together without cameras rolling and other people milling about, just talking normally. Nothing of the like had ever happened before.

He didn't know Chord like he knew everyone else, even the Warbler guys, and hadn't talked to him a whole lot since the small talk they'd made when they'd shot their scenes for the duets episode and everybody – including Chris – had thought Chord's character was going to be Kurt's boyfriend. With that in mind, they'd had a semi-awkward exchange about all the interest forty-year-old gay men were displaying in the rumors that had already hit the media, and therefore in Chord himself.

Chris had privately tried to gauge how Chord actually felt about it all. But he couldn't tell, beyond the undeniable fact that Chord was straight and it would all be new to him, and naturally uncomfortable. On-screen kisses, in his experience, were never truly comfortable. They were just something you did while your mind asked, _Is this believable? Should I go like... this?_ Chord seemed to manage fine with Dianna. Because things had changed; Chris had not had all that many scenes with Chord during the season and had missed out in a large chunk of New Directions goings-on. By season's end, Chris was left to vaguely wonder if Chord had ever even realized he'd been slated to play gay – that he'd had a pretty close shave. He wondered if Chord was relieved. Any of the guys would be, Chris thought. Any of them would be relieved not to kiss him, even if it was just their job.

They were both friends with everyone, but there was a weird gap, some invisible divide that made Chord seem very far away. Chris hung out with the girls and Chord hung out with the guys. 

Chord went to concerts with Darren, tooled around with Harry on set, played video games with Mark backstage, did endless impressions for Cory. He took Cory and Mark with him to Tennessee between shows once. Chris drew cats sitting next to Ashley and Lea, exchanged playlists with Dianna, went to concerts with gaggles of ladies, and had exchanged more words with Kristin dos Santos than with Chord. The girls got along with Chord like they were all his mother, calling him affectionate and funny nicknames that he clearly enjoyed, and he was just one of the guys.

Chris didn't totally fit in either category. He wasn't just one of the guys. But even though he shared a dressing room with them, he wasn't exactly one of the girls either. And Chord was new.

Chord hadn't been with the original cast members in sleep-deprived states of euphoria, doing mall tours before _Glee_ had even finished its first season. He'd never watched Chris being goaded into doing "Single Ladies" for smaller crowds or given him crap for walking around in training heels. He'd never been on roller coasters with Chris at the Mall of America or watched him stick to Diet Coke at board game night at Naya's. He'd missed an entire year of normal shooting and the hectic summer tour, which was jank kiddie stuff compared to this year's. It had been just, boom, Chris walking in on him in the shower and leering; boom, Chris didn't film with him for half the season because he was off getting his gay duets elsewhere and Chord was off the hook.

Maybe he and Chord were just becoming actual friends now – the tour germ-swap bond was a pretty strong one.

Yet it still somehow seemed weird, and Chris couldn't help thinking it was because he was gay. Actually gay, unlike Darren. And it was the first thing Chord had ever known about him. The mere word had come to define Chris utterly to others.

It wasn't that Chord was overtly wary or weird around Chris, but there was some kind of discomfort that lingered in the air regardless. He felt the least close to Chord out of everyone in the cast, knew the least about him and had the least in common with him.

Or maybe it was just him.

Before the show one night, Chris decided to break the automatic gender barrier created by an interest in sports and ultra-violent video games and wandered to the green room, where the boys' TV was set up and game consoles lined all in a row.

Darren, sitting on the couch with his guitar, was the first to welcome him.

"Hey! Look who it is!"

Cory looked up from his phone. "Well, well."

"Hellooo," said Chris, to all.

Harry and Mark had the folding seats in front of the TV and were locked in some kind of battle. Whatever it was, it had guns and looked dark and post-apocalyptic and Chris couldn't tell whether they were fighting against each other or if it was co-op.

Next to Darren was Chord, holding a paper plate with the last of what appeared to have been a heavy selection of food; a side of thick yellow triangles of pineapple and a couple of ginormous strawberries were all that remained. He had a bottle of water stuck between his knees. He blinked at Chris and echoed Darren, looking surprised.

"Hey!"

It wasn't just the boys, Chris discovered; Naya was stretched out on the other couch with Cory, her head pillowed on his lap, a pair of noise-canceling headphones on her ears and a pair of Uggs on her feet, which were propped up on the arm of the couch. With the tilt of her head, Chris took that she was catching up on sleep. There was just about always at least one of them who hadn't slept at all for whatever reason.

"'Sup, Chris?" Harry asked, clearly identifying him by voice, as he didn't turn once from the intense gameplay happening on the screen.

"Just wandering. What're you playing?"

" _Doom 3_ ," Mark said.

"Aren't you supposed to be writing?" asked Darren cheerily. He was picking out an insistent rhythm on his guitar that didn't seem to be any particular song, at least as far as Chris could tell. He was just jamming. Chris had learned that Darren spent a lot of time just jamming on his guitar wherever he went, floating along playing random licks between songs. Chord and Mark played the guitar, too, but rarely in their backstage downtime. They were both into sealing themselves away and writing songs, solo.

"Yeah, I am," admitted Chris. "But I left my laptop back at the hotel to keep myself away from it. I'm way ahead of schedule, but I really need to look at chapter four with fresh eyes later."

"Do you wanna get in on this?" Mark asked.

"Oh, I actually have no idea what's going on in the game," he demurred, waving his hands. "I just need to chill out for a bit."

"Well, you found the chillest room," Darren informed him.

"I can see that. Naya found the right place."

And she was taking up a good deal of it. The only seat left was the space between Darren and Chord, which – between Darren's guitar and wide-spread knees balancing it and Chord's slouching – wasn't much.

"Okay, scoot," Chris ordered Darren, and Darren did, a bit. Chord, too, shoved himself up straighter as Chris wedged in and dropped himself down.

"What do you want to hear?" Darren proposed conversationally, knee turning into Chris's.

"Uhh, let's see. Not Katy Perry," Chris teased.

"No? Not Katy Perry? Hmm, puzzling response. I'm not sure where that's coming from. Beatles?" Darren offered. "'Paperback Writer.'"

"Oh, sure," said Chris cooperatively, getting the connection. "But I hope to go out in hardback first."

Darren laughed and launched into what had to be the mellowest, most coffee-house version of "Paperback Writer" ever, singing soft enough to not be totally disturbing but loud enough that you couldn't completely ignore him. It was probably a little bit like being at a college party, Chris reflected to himself dryly, only without the social lubricant of a keg or the expenditure of precious energies. They were all just being bumps on a log. Chris's arm settled awkwardly against Chord's from shoulder to elbow.

"Uh... you want a strawberry?" Chord asked, looking somewhat uncertain.

"If you're offering," said Chris, amused. Just turning his head to look at the plate – and then at Chord – was enough to give him a good whiff of how he smelled. In comparison, Darren was muskier and yet more department store-smelling; he knew the smell of Darren quite well, actually, associated heavily with makeup and the Dalton uniform jackets (which didn't exactly breathe) and probably his own semi-anxious sweat from their umpteen act-like-it's-the-first-time on-screen kisses.

"Yeah, if you want, go for it," said Chord. "Pineapple too. It's pretty good."

"Well, thank you, craft services," said Chris, taking one of the large red strawberries. Chord took the other, and they sat there silently nibbling on the tart fruit while Mark and Harry made stuff explode on TV and Darren hit some interesting high notes in his run-heavy Beatles rendition. Chris wanted to laugh a bit; he really needed someone to sing harmony with him so he didn't zoom all over the place, but he was just going for it anyway.

After a minute, Chord leaned in towards him and muttered urgently, "I've got cabin fevaarr!"

The bite of strawberry Chris was playing with nearly fell out of his mouth.

He'd never been on the exact receiving end of one of Chord's impressions before, and he recognized the silly piratical tilt of it immediately, even though he'd fallen asleep during _Muppet Treasure Island_.

Chord grinned, swigging some water through it, and Chris grinned back, then tried to bite it down and be cool. Did they have an inside joke now?

"I've got it too," he responded out of the side of his mouth.

"It's a thousand pages, give or take a few," sang Darren.

It was all pretty chill, Chris thought, if you liked acoustic break-downs punctuated with repetitive shooting and screaming-type noises and enjoyed computer-animated gore. He wasn't surprised when Kevin came in, laptop in hand.

"This is the party place!" he noted, spotting Chris. "Man, Naya's got it covered. I feel bad waking her up..."

"Well, I was just visiting," said Chris, giving his fingers a lick to get the strawberry residue off them. "Take my place."

He scooted forward, but Darren's guitar's head stock nearly poked him in the chest; Darren didn't seem to notice he was blocking Chris's exit.

"Here," Chord said, seeing the problem.

With a stretching lean and accompanying grunt, he set his water bottle and plate down beside the couch, then out of nowhere, snagged Chris by the hips and gave him a strong tug over. Chris had not been even slightly prepared; he flailed and grasped for the arm of the couch on wild instinct so he wouldn't fall onto Chord, and Kevin snorted outright.

"Yeah, I love y'all, but I ain't squeezin' in there. My laptop'll probably get scratched up on Darren's guitar."

Darren broke from his own concentrated strumming, which had involved a lot of passionately-closed eyes and head-bobbing as he wandered up and down between melody and harmony.

"Oh! Dude, am I in the way?"

"Uh, totally," laughed Chris in a gasp, leaning to try and scoot himself up onto the arm of the couch. It was hard, one-armed; the only leverage his thighs had were Chord's underneath him. Only his toes were touching the floor. His other hand had nowhere to go but Chord's chest.

"Don't bother. I gotta find somewhere I can charge this thing anyway," said Kevin, scanning the room's perimeter for an open socket.

"You look like you're on wires," Cory chuckled, staring at Chris.

"Thank you, I do feel like I'm destined to be in Cirque du Soleil," Chris replied. His arm muscles were straining, but it was mostly Chord keeping him suspended up awkwardly by the hips. They probably looked more like something out of _Blades of Glory_. He did a graceful, pointy-toed kick and got a good response from Cory for it.

"Chord doesn't mind if you want to get in a little lappage," Darren teased. "I do it all the time. He really has a very giving, gentle lap. Wide as a plain, and..."

"What the fuck?" Chord was laughing.

"...just really... peaceful."

Mark briefly craned to look over his shoulder at them. "Man, Colfer passed out drunk on the C's lap last week, or whenever it was. He's no stranger to the ways of that mighty lap."

"I never knew my lap was so legendary," Chord said.

"You're no Billy Bush," Mark said cuttingly, making most of them laugh. Dianna had been pretty notoriously grossed out at having to perch in Billy Bush's lap during a large cast interview, and they had all joked about him since.

Chris felt the support in Chord's arms give suddenly.

"Sorry!" he yelped, gravity dropping his ass down atop Chord.

The moment he hit Chord's legs, he felt his center of balance shift back into his favor, but Chord had responded to the awkward fall by sitting up even straighter and somehow relegating him to one leg with a brief, strong grip around his waist... and now Chris was perched on it like a kid on Santa's knee. Chord braced his back with one hand, and the other gave Chris's thigh a friendly, non-committal pat.

Chris could feel himself going red. Red like a strawberry. Red like a fire truck that was literally on fire.

He didn't need to look at Chord's face to know it was probably blank and bored – or possibly annoyed.

It wasn't exactly a big deal; the whole lot of them did regularly fall asleep on each other during breaks on set and on the plane. It really didn't matter whose shoulder you wound up drooling on or whose seat you stole when you desperately just wanted to be horizontal. There was often transportation situations where Lea, who was the tiniest, wound up on just about anybody's lap due to a lack of seating. She once sat on Dianna's lap at the airport for an hour as they waited for their late flight, and Cory was almost a go-to lap on set. Lea had sat tipsily next to Chris on Chord's lap for that whole Billy Bush interview and had been way more comfortable than Dianna had been.

But that was Lea. That was Dianna. They were girls.

Chris found himself falling painfully silent for a long awkward minute, existing there on Chord's lap like it wasn't quite real, staring off at the white brick wall waiting for the inevitable second when his body decided to get up and make a joke – because that reflex was getting jammed like crazy, and denied repeatedly due to the fact that he was just kind of frozen – and leave. Like, before it could get weird for Chord. Or for any of them.

But Cory just returned to thumbing his phone's keypad and Darren backtracked to wherever he'd left off in his long-winded Beatles jam. Kevin had found a plug for his laptop and was humming along soulfully. Mark and Harry weren't paying any attention to the awkward transfer-gone-wrong. Naya hadn't moved a muscle, let alone awakened, but he couldn't imagine her blinking twice. No one seemed to really care but Chris, who was mortified to the extent that you could probably fry an egg on his face.

 _Sorry_ , Chris pined to repeat to Chord, but didn't, so as not to draw attention to the fact that he was so embarrassed. His arm was awkwardly crushed up against Chord's chest. It wasn't like before, when he'd been too drunk to care that he was splayed face-down on the floor or on top of anyone. Now he was far, far too aware of how weird he felt, and yet how casual Chord was acting about it.

Was Chord really comfortable with this? Seriously?

On the surface, it was clearly all right for this minute, but was it one of those things where a social timer was ticking down the seconds until it crossed a line from casual and amusing to weird and uncomfortable? Like a hug you didn't know how long to keep?

He sat there on Chord's leg as unobtrusively as possible, keeping rigidly still and not sure what to think or do, until Kevin said, "Canada, y'all!" to the room at large.

" _O Canadaaa_ ," offered Cory in a deep, nicely tuned baritone, grinning.

"Oh, I'm excited," said Chris helplessly.

"Yeah, I've never been," said Chord, and Chris could feel his voice in his chest all up and down his arm.

This lead to a lengthy discussion about Canada, Vancouver versus Toronto, Cory's well-hidden Canadian accent, and whether or not Chord was going to start speaking with one while he was up there, because Darren and Kevin certainly intended to; Chris still had to figure out something good to say about Toronto on the second night, but would not concede to warn Darren about anything he had up his sleeve.

Eventually Harry interrupted with a curse and Mark laughed loudly, and Chord leaned forward to see what was going on with the game.

That was Chris's cue. A quick glance to the side revealed that Chord had slid two fingers through one of Chris's belt loops, hand casual there on his hip, and another darted at Chord's face confirmed that Chord didn't seem pained. Encouraged that it seemed to truly be no big deal after all, Chris slowly raised his arm up over Chord's shoulders so he could lay it along the back of the couch, fitting them together rib-to-rib.

"Oh, that's bullshit. That was probably a bug, I bet you," Chord said, to whatever Harry's problem was, and when he settled back again he glanced up at Chris.

"Leg numb?" asked Chris in a pleasant voice, making eye contact.

"Nah, you're about as heavy as my nephew," said Chord. He reached up and pushed around his bangs as if he was still accustomed to them being of substantial length, grinning. "He's four."

Chris laughed loudly at the ceiling.

 

 

Tour days flew by. They were halfway in before they even knew it. Yet the tour also seemed to stretch on without end before them, the tour just a perpetual state of being where the scenery kept changing but the constants were the same cast, the same stage, the same songs. Every day was long and exhausting, the plane rides inevitably giving Chris cricks in his neck and numb legs and the feeling that he was ever in motion, never stopping, not even when he was sleeping somewhere on the ground and not in the air.

Some days between shows, one or two of the cast would take advantage of the free evening and fly to do a photo shoot or see a friend or just go off to get some peace and quiet, but they always all came back together for the show again. And during every show, the adrenaline high inevitably kicked in and made them all absolutely crazy. It was unreal. Stage fright sizzled and became rocket fuel in their veins.

Amber and Mark were the least likely to bounce off the walls, but it wasn't unusual to see any of them doing something utterly unexplainable. It got to where it seemed perfectly normal for Dianna to waft around the entire room in a series of pirouettes for no reason and for one of the Warbler guys to start doing this thing where he'd sneak up behind Chris and lift him up under the arms out of nowhere, just to make Chris flail. He even did it on stage a couple of times. Chord must've been right about Chris being light (it was, honestly, a welcome change from spending his entire childhood on the chubby side). Chris began messing with the guys operating the cameras for the big screens just for fun and writing increasingly strange jokes into the skit he had with Heather and Darren, trying to throw Darren off his game. He dropped another pants size, which made his jeans prone to sliding down his hips during his Beyoncé dance number, and Ashley told him he was getting all skinny and tall.

"I think they call that puberty," said Chris. "It's about freakin' time I had a growth spurt. Please pray my voice doesn't change."

"It's the money-maker now," agreed Ashley.

"It's the money-maker. I absolutely must be Guylinda. Lea will never forgive me if I start talking _like this_." He let his voice drop in his throat like a ton of lead. "Not to mention Ryan will be like, 'What do we do with you now, Chris? We'll have to find some butch songs for you to sing.'"

"Ha! Sounds like Ryan," Ashley noted, correctly. Then she added, "You should do your Ryan voice for Chord. It actually really sounds like him."

"Ha!" Chris echoed. "No, Chord can do those voices and things on command! It's just lucky when I do it."

In D.C. some of them hit a gay bar and Chris very carefully had one drink and stuck close to Kevin and Jenna as an extremely cute guy, who was wiry and had hipster glasses and a passing resemblance in the nose to Zachary Quinto, talked him up at the bar for forty-five minutes. When Kevin at last realized Chris was trapped, he cut in, saying, "Chris, get your ass out on this dance floor with me."

The guy persistently gave Jenna his number on the back of a cocktail napkin to pass on to Chris.

"Well, that was a first," Chris told Kevin on the dance floor with some remorse, shimmying halfheartedly to a remix of "Edge of Glory." "He would never have come up to me if I wasn't on _Glee_ or _TIME_ or any of that."

"So what?" Kevin asked, having to lean in to yell it into Chris's ear over the dance music. "He seemed into you."

"I don't know," Chris responded. He was holding Kevin's usual dance floor swag back considerably, but he knew that persistent Quinto-alike was probably watching them and Kevin seemed to know it too. "It didn't feel right, or something. I don't want to worry about whether or not he's into me for me or for – everything else."

"Starfucker," Kevin hollered.

"Yes!" Chris laughed.

"Not your type."

"Not my type!"

"You need someone in the biz," Kevin said.

"So I should be the starfucker," joked Chris.

"Yes, that is what I'm saying! What is this nah-I'm-not-doin'-this business, though? Are we square-dancing? Get down. I said get low! Get low!"

In Canada half of them didn't have cell service and absolutely did not know what to do with themselves other than run around yelling.

Chris and Chord were both amongst the unfortunates who found themselves suddenly unable to text or tweet, much to Harry's amusement, so they wound up in a corner backstage with their arms crossed over their white vests, having a completely serious discussion on how to punk Harry. Chord was in favor of old-fashioned summer camp style pranks, while Chris thought they needed to make the fact that he could receive texts a bad thing.

They wound up accidentally drawing Amber and Dianna into the plot, as it was unusual to see the two of them talking intently and the girls thought something must be seriously wrong.

"Oh, no, no. You guys should use Naya's phone," advised Dianna.

"Oh, right! She was sending you guys those A texts, that's perfect," Chris breathed, and Amber moaned.

"I don't know if she still has it. And I don't know if it would work up here anyway."

"Then we should just get one of those pay-as-you go phones or something," Chord said. "Do they have those in Canada?"

"I dunno," Chris kidded him, "it _is_ all just empty tundra up here."

Chord was unruffled.

"I'm willing to pay money," he said, with an expression of serious devotion.

"And I am willing to compose upwards of a hundred confusing-slash-annoying texts that will seem like they're coming from someone he knows, but which will be frustratingly vague as to who," said Chris.

Lea suddenly materialized, sounding concerned. "What's with the huddle? What are we talking about?"

"Nothing," Amber said, in her utterly composed way. "Chris and Chord are taking naughty pills."

"Naughty pills?" repeated Chord. "Damn. Is that what Emergen-C is? Crushed up naughty pills? Because if that's the case, I've been taking it twice a day, so I get to be twice as naughteh."

"It's not really us. Amber slipped them to us in our drinks. Like GHB," said Chris.

Chord shook his head. "Not Miss Pretty! I just do what she tells me."

"Man, I walked in on a weird-ass conversation!" commented Lea.

Wisely, they dropped the conversation before it could get back through the entire cast to Harry. After the show, much of them were in the mood to go out and experience Toronto, and Chris was splitting a beer with Darren at a place in the Distillery District, crowded elbow-to-elbow with him and Ashley at two long tables they'd had pushed together for the cast and road crew, when he felt Chord's presence nearby.

He twisted in his seat, and sure enough, Chord was behind him. He leaned over Chris's shoulder and muttered over the din of silverware clattering and the band that was playing in the next room while Chris surreptitiously got a whiff of him.

"Hey. So – I got a phone. It's totally on. What's your room number?"

"Oh, I... um, twenty-first floor or something, I'm way up there. Like, I want to say... 2114."

"2114. Okay. Later?"

"Later," Chris confirmed. 

Chord headed to his seat at the other end of the table right across from the target of Operation Technology Will Rise Against You and Chris smiled against the rim of the glass as he sipped at his beer.

"It's really crisp, isn't it?" Darren asked him.

"Mm," Chris agreed. "It's kind of dry, or something? Let's get something darker."

By the time he made it back to his room, Chris was feeling nice, having gone easy on the several beers he and Darren had tried out, drinking just enough to have kept him him continuously loose, warm, and primed for a couple of hours. He had enough experience now that he knew he didn't want to get trashed... not unless everyone else was getting trashed, too. One person getting drunk all alone was sad, and being That Guy was not his thing.

He'd only just shed his blue hoodie and boots when Chord came knocking. Even though he was expecting Chord, Chris could've identified him from the knuckly, scattered knock alone.

"Okay, tell me you've been composing texts," said Chord, bursting in as soon as Chris opened the door. He had concealed his purchase in his leather jacket, still in its plastic bag.

Chris yanked it from him. "Not really, but I'm pretty good on the fly. Is his number in here?"

"Yep. Fire away."

Chris gave an anticipatory moan as he stretched, then flopped onto his bed, legs dangling over the side of it. "Let's see," he said, flipping awkwardly through the phone's ancient-looking menu to Harry's name, which occupied the list all alone; Chord had entered it as _HARRY WILL PAY_. "Okay. Something confusing. Here we go. 'Yo Harry,'" Chris narrated as he typed. "'Heard tomorrow's show got pushed back an hour. Can you verify?'"

"Nice," said Chord approvingly, seating himself at Chris's desk like a boss. He'd tossed his jacket over the back of the chair, and as he sat he ditched his ball cap on the desk and ruffled his hair up, exposing his dark roots. He was wearing his white baller sneakers and a gray t-shirt that had some kind of graffiti-looking design printed on it. Under that Chris could see a hint of another t-shirt under that, a white one.

Chris changed tack; he was buzzed enough that his mind was in good, happy working order and not in the drunken and/or ill shambles it had been the last two times Chord had been in his room.

"'Don't worry about earlier.' Smiley face. 'I doubt anybody noticed.'"

"'P.Y.T.' really inflamed my groin area tonight," suggested Chord out of nowhere, making Chris toss a loud barking laugh right up at the ceiling.

"Oh, that's great," he crowed, transcribing and sending it. "That's much better than mine..." He twisted on the bed and held the phone out in Chord's direction, waving it around encouragingly when Chord didn't immediately grab it back. "Here, you do one. We'll trade off."

"He'll know it's me!" Chord countered.

"No, he won't, don't worry," said Chris coaxingly. He bounced off the bed, as rubbery as he'd been when he'd flopped onto it, and brought the phone right to Chord. He was definitely not doing the dirty work all by himself. "The texts should seem like they're coming from everywhere."

Chord accepted his fate, and the phone. "Okay."

And then, for some reason – the beer, maybe, because absolutely no thought was involved – Chris simply seated himself on Chord's lap, which was wide open. He tucked himself neatly onto Chord's left leg like he'd been invited to make himself at home, entirely on autopilot, body somehow taking Chord's knee as a viable seat.

It took Chris a second to realize what he was doing, and by the time the realization hit him, he wanted to jump back up immediately like Chord's lap was on fire and scalding his ass.

But something else, something that took over every night when he had to wriggle into that leotard in the most undignified backstage tangle ever conceived and then shimmy around lip-syncing to Beyoncé with the attitude that he was the most fabulous queer in the world, was taking over. The lever in his instincts had yanked all the way over from _Freak out and start babbling!_ to _Commit!_

The whole internal tug of war only took a second, and in that time, Chord blinked once, almost sleepily, and looked up at Chris with his unfathomable eyes, as if minorly noticing someone was sitting on him all of a sudden.

"Oh, is this uncomfortable for you?" Chris blurted, his voice pitching up into the Mickey stratosphere.

Chord actually looked at a loss for words for a moment.

Then: "Uh, no."

"Really?" Chris demanded. "You're not intimidated by me?"

It had to be the beer. Maybe it was still hitting him. It didn't hit him as fast and hard as the shots of vodka had, but no way was Chris ever so egomaniacal sober. He could actually hear how stupid it sounded, suggesting anyone – especially someone like Chord, who was older than him, taller than him, more muscular than him, and generally way better-looking – could possibly be intimidated by him. It was far more likely that Chord was grossed out by him.

" _No_ , you're fine – it's fine, it's..."

Chord trailed off, and Chris watched his sandy lashes flicker as he took his gaze back and bobbed his head in a nod that only served to make him look more uncertain than anything.

"Well, I can move," Chris said lightly.

"Whatever, you're – it's fine!"

"It's fine?"

"You – like, you... sat on my lap for like – an hour the other day," Chord got out. His mind seemed to be desperately groping for words. "It's fine!"

"Oh. Okay, then," said Chris, and crossed his knee in a down-to-business fashion. "Let's get back to making Harry sorry he ever bragged about his amazing international plan."

Chord let out a loud sigh, which he encased in a thoughtful, "Hmmm..." and Chris had a front-row seat, literally, to watch him twiddle his thumbs on the phone's plastic keypad.

Between the two of them, the texts ranged from slightly creepy to silly:

_harry y won't u return my calls?? we need to talk asap. i just know this baby is urs._

_Bad news. You didn't get the role. But they want you to read for the part of the male stripper. This could be your big break._

_what you said earlier was so racist. u really should work on that_

_Dude, I think I hurt myself during 2nite's show. Goin 2 emergency room. Don't let the bus leave w/out me bro!_

_i don't know where i am, can u come and get me? i think im in a really bad neighborhood_

_We're all really worried about your drinking. It's not your fault. It's a terrible disease. We just want to get you the help you need._

_your lookin shall we say, heavier these days. what happened??_

_LXD killed tonight! And by that I mean they literally murdered someone and hid the body. The police will be here any minute. Nice knowing you!_

_harry harry bo barry banana fanna fo farry me my mo marry HARRY!_ (Chris laughed.)

_Threw up in your shoes. Hope you don't mind._

_your epidermis is showing_ (Again... Chris laughed.)

_If you want my advice, I know she really misses you. You should just give her a call._

_you are the sexiest dancer on glee heather morris!_

That one really got them both laughing, Chris to the point of throwing his head back so far his spine dug into the arm of the desk chair and he might've slipped over the arm entirely if Chord hadn't caught him under the backs of his crossed knees with one strong arm.

"Ohhh my God," Chris both moaned and giggled appreciatively, pulling his back out of its crazy bend and trying to right himself. His head felt heavy with how flushed he was, and he settled himself in against Chord's chest with a heavy lean. It was how they'd sat in the green room while Mark and Harry shot things in their game and Darren was That Guy With The Guitar and Naya had woken up and wheezed, "Beeee, I'm tiiiired, sing me a lullabyyyy..." Friends all around, no one caring after the first glance of idle curiosity. But better. Warmer.

He breathed in, nose that much closer to Chord's neck and hair, and everything he smelled was good. Whatever shampoo or soap Chord used, whatever he wore to smell so good – that was how guys should smell. Not like... Axe (Chris's entire high school had smelled like manure and Axe) or, you know, ladies' designer scents.

"'Kay, your turn," Chord said. He tapped Chris lightly but insistently with the phone on the side of his thigh, as his arm was tucked under Chris's knees.

Laughing lazily, Chris took the phone, but he'd scarcely started navigating to send a new message when the phone beeped shrilly in his hand with some ancient _Star Trek_ sound effect.

"Oh my God, he texted us back," said Chris, whacking Chord's chest with the back of one hand.

"Read it! Read it!"

"'Who is this? I'm one text away from blocking you, so 'fess up while you can.' 'Fess up! He actually said, ''Fess up,' like an old-timey sheriff or something! With the apostrophe and everything!"

"Okay, but who should we say it is?" Chord asked, a deviant look on his face.

"Oh, good question." Chris fell silent for a moment, sitting there on Chord's lap. For a few heartbeats it almost became strange that he was perched where he was. "Wait, what's his dog's name?"

"Uh, Charlie?"

"'Charlie,'" Chris narrated as he typed it out. Chord guffawed, which made Chris burst into laughter too.

"Just me, Charlie, textin' ya!" laughed Chord. "Keepin' ya updated with my dog business! Woof!"

"'Woof,'" added Chris in a high-pitched whisper, giggles making his belly hurt. He sent it off and managed, "Okay, he's gonna block the crap out of us, and I for one don't blame him. Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted... hope you didn't spend too much on this thing."

"Worth every dollar... loonie? Wait, what is it? Is that right? Loonie?" Chord said, apparently enjoying the convulsions he kept sending Chris into.

"We take this - to the grave," he finally managed to wheeze.

"Nope. I'm tellin' on you," said Chord brightly, with a perfectly calm and serious cock-browed smile.

"Chord!" Chris rebuked in a loud, mock-scandalized voice that was broken by gasps for breath. "This whole idea? This purchase? This phone? Right here? In my hand? That banana-fanna-fo text? All you! All you!"

The phone beeped again, and Chord lamented, "There it goes."

Chris fumbled to open the text and read the screen. Then he cracked up again and shoved the phone in Chord's face so he could see Harry's reply.

"'Bad dog,'" Chord read, and laughed. "Wait, did he block us?"

"I don't know..."

Chris sat up straight abruptly, making Chord look up at him with wide eyes.

"Wait. Can you do Ryan?"

"What?"

"Ryan. Like, his voice. Can you do Ryan Murphy's voice?"

It was almost instantaneous, as if Ryan had walked into the room; Chris watched Chord's mouth form words he seemed to pull out of a mental vault and heard Ryan's voice lean out.

"Well, Chris, maybe you could stand a little closer to Darren in this number. Be flirty! Be flirty. You're having fun with your adorable boyfriend."

"Oh my God, that's eerie," Chris said. Chord had it all down: the pointed lowness and seriousness of Ryan's voice, his enunciated Ss, the sociable but slightly sanctimonious and opinionated rhythm with which he spoke. 

"I think you need to show a little skin," Chord had Ryan continue.

"Oh my God."

"There you go again, pulling focus."

"Oh my God. That is way better than my voice. My Ryan voice," clarified Chris quickly, then waved his own commentary off in a rush in favor of the idea that had struck him. He grabbed inarticulately at Chord's guitar pick necklace, giving it it an urgent tug. "We have to call Harry and leave him a voice mail as Ryan."

"Harry, I'm really interested in having you sing a solo for the first episode," Chord said immediately, still parroting out Ryan's tilted voice. "I'm thinking it has to be Beyoncé. I think you have that in you, Harry. That range... that vocal power. And I think you have the body to pull it off."

Chris's stomach ached pleasantly as he bent in two with laughter and sniggered into Chord's shoulder. "The body!"

"That hot diva body," Chord continued. "We're gonna put you in a fabulous leotard. It's gonna be amazing."

"Oh, Jesus," Chris moaned. He picked his head back up in a dignified way. "Yes, yes. The leotard. Ugh. How I hate it."

"Don't worry," said Chord, his voice hopping back into its normal register. It was funny how clumsy and twangy it suddenly sounded without all the control exerted over it. "We'll get Harry in it. He'll be the hot new gyrating diva."

Chris studied Chord for a moment.

"You're –" he started, but stopped again, not sure what exactly he'd even begun to say but sensing it might be weird.

Chord just looked up at him. Chris could see by the raise of his brows that he'd perked Chord's ears, and his eyes seemed curious, but he didn't ask, _What?_

It hit Chris, then – again – that he had unceremoniously seated himself on Chord's leg, uninvited. It was getting to be a habit, even as it was pure happenstance. They were close, closer physically than Chris had been with most guys he'd ever known, let alone dated, and it wasn't like him to be... like this. Not with guys, anyway. Not even gay ones he was going out to dinner with. His stomach was sore from laughing and he could've smothered himself in the smell of Chord, that boyish sweet smell that seemed to be locked in the material of his t-shirt, and he was holding on awkwardly to the chain around Chord's neck with one single finger.

Feeling increasingly strange and guilty, he made himself let it go, and Chord glanced down, lips pressed together.

"You're much better at impressions than me," Chris finally said. "You should call."

Chord cooperatively took the phone. "What should I say?"

"Everything you said was dead-on," Chris promised fervently.

"He'll know it's me," Chord said, lifting the phone to his ear and looking up at Chris with mischief in his eye. The volume on the phone was loud enough that Chris could hear the call connecting, ringing once, and then a stoic automated-sounding voice. "Fuck, I think he blocked us."

"Aww, damn."

"Damn you, technology wizard."

"Still... worth the loonies?"

"Totally. Totally worth the loonies!"

 

 

For his birthday, Kevin decided there would be a talent competition, and presided over it with much bias, disregarding the applause and hooting of everyone who had gathered. 

For this, Chris did a few lines of awful stand-up he wrote expressly for Kevin and twirled his sai – a feat which no longer really impressed anybody except Chord and Darren, who had never seen him twirl actual shiny weapons. They gave him a standing ovation, and he let them have a mock yet still inadvisable sword-fight with his sai.

Darren wrote Kevin a song basically on the spot, which put him in the lead for much of the so-called competition. Heather crossed her eyes and made one wander hilariously while she stood there, deadpan as ever. Harry – who so far, regardless of questioning and showing people the bizarro stream of texts from the Canadian mystery number, had not yet found out that it was Chris and Chord who had sent them and deeply suspected Naya – demonstrated the wall-flip he'd learned doing "Make 'Em Laugh," spotted by Mark.

Chord stood up and went through a litany of voices as they were called out to him, standard favorites he did pretty much every day anyway – Peter Griffin, Kenny Chesney, James Earl Jones, and various _True Blood_ characters for which he growled "Sookeh is mahn" and "Let us make sweet vampiah luhve in the dirt mah ancestors are burry'd in." Ashley and Chris called for Lafayette; it was all Chris could do not to call out for a Ryan Murphy impression. Chord ad-libbed in a drawl, "You best call a motherfucka back, hookah." Standing ovation-worthy, truly.

And a few blatant girl-drinks later, lap-worthy. Apparently. For half a minute. You couldn't even really count it. Chris was there just long enough to tell him he was great and smell his neck. It was just a pit-stop on the way to Ashley's lap. Then, for good measure, Kevin's, to demand the title of talent show winner.

They all made quite the ruckus, and Chord got a bit of a scolding when he was late to the airport the next day, making Harry, Jenna, and Dianna late with him.

Happy times, Chris sang, and thought. Happy nights.


	3. Chapter 3

They filmed a movie.

They were over the hump; Europe was on the horizon, the end of the tour closer and closer, the days draining away, gray clouds and unfamiliar places punctuated sharply with the colorful crazy energy of each show.

They went to New York, and after having filmed there it was as if returning home somehow.

Ashley learned the art of feather hair extensions; Chris went for broke and joined most of the girls in the cast in getting some feathery weave. His was blue. Why not? On the long plane ride to London, he had Ashley add in a red and they watched several hours of _Ab Fab_ on Ashley's laptop while Chris cut out and glued things to paper plates.

He was oddly aware, these days, of where Chord was on the plane. Ryan, Zach, Brooke, Darren and Dianna... many people floated around without assigned or preferred seats, sitting in different groups during each flight or in some cases deferring to the Warbler bus, and he didn't really keep track of anyone besides Ashley, and for some reason, Chord. Chord stuck to the back of the plane with Mark and Harry (even though Harry and Chord were apparently involved in a friendly prank war) as much as Chris stuck to Ashley. He rarely got up to wander. He slept as much as he could, often with the hood of his hoodie up over his head with the drawstrings pulled shut as if to cradle his face.

He was probably protecting his hair from feathers. It was unfortunate. Chris had picked out an exotic spotted one for him.

 

 

England had them busy from the moment they landed. They not only did shows: they filmed spots; they did ads; they did numerous interviews; they did a freaking music video; they met British celebrities and fans. And they were total unabashed tourists whenever they could scrape together the time. At least, Chris was.

Chris packed every spare moment of his itinerary with sight-seeing and events and, like a stupid American, talked to total strangers who just happened to be in the lift with him about the royal wedding. He managed to shut up about it when they actually met Prince Harry and the Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie, thank God, but it was kind of gobsmacking to actually meet people who were in the royal wedding he'd watched on TV, let alone do tequila shots with them after an amazing Killers concert. Chris had never done straight-up tequila shots, but the tequila was obviously the best possible quality, smooth and easy, and a lot less like drinking rubbing alcohol.

And of course, they went clubbing. Oh, they had to go clubbing. Especially in London. They had so many shows there, it was crazy. Amazing. The energy swept them up and exhausted them all so thoroughly that it was easily the craziest portion of the tour, even crazier than filming the movie – even though they were jet lagged none of them seemed to want to sleep. Their hotel rooms in London were the steadiest features they'd seen in weeks and quickly became like temporary apartments.

After shows, they all went out in various groups to scope out the good places, but wound up eventually settling into two packs by virtue of who wanted to actually dance and who wanted to go and gawk and people-watch while ear-bleeding Europop thumped in their bones, so Chris wound up in a group with Dianna, Lea, Jenna, Ashley, Amber, Chord, Mark, and Cory. They were put in a VIP section, and sure enough, they took up enough room that Lea didn't have a seat. She sat on Chris's lap, then on Jenna's, then Mark's.

Cory didn't drink, so Dianna proclaimed herself his "sober sister," and the rest of them got drinks – and shortly thereafter, various shades of sloshed.

Lea slurred happily, laughed loudly, toasted repeatedly, took pictures pressed cheek-to-cheek with almost everyone and sang in falsetto, "Meeemories!" Amber played it cool and even put in a request for Adele with the DJ, then shook her groove thang in her seat and sang along. Mark entertained himself by casually tricking Chord into drinking twice as much as him, but Cory, Chris, and Jenna were the only ones who noticed. Chris played it safe with a rum and Coke. He was having a better time watching Chord take up dares and order things he'd never even heard of before and then only drink half of them. Cory had to stop him from mixing his alcohols several times and say stuff like, "I wouldn't do that if I were you, dude." The tab was probably enormous, but Lea was well into pronouncing her love for each and every one of them separately by the time they were ready to stagger outside and hail a cab, and she happily paid for them all by leaving a bonkers tip even though the club insisted they were free. 

Outside the club it felt damp and it felt unreal; all of the buildings all around them were so old and crowded together, but housed things like clubs and H&Ms, ultra-new overlapping with stodgy old places. Cory hailed them a cab, but they had to split once again into smaller groups, as one taxi couldn't possibly carry them all.

"Ladies first," said Cory, gallantly.

Lea, Dianna, and Amber climbed in, then Mark said, "You all, Chordy here's about to take a nosedive onto the street. Let's put him in this one. We'll grab the next."

Sure enough, Chord was nearly hanging off Mark's neck, looking sluggish and red, hanging onto his black hat as if worried it would blow away or slide off or something.

"We'll scoot. We've got room," declared Lea.

Chris swooped to help Mark support Chord into the cab, and sure enough, Chord's hat slipped off and fell to the somewhat dirty pavement. Chris snatched it up quickly and leaned into the door of the cab so he could put it back on Chord's heavily lazing head. Chord reached up drunkenly to try to smush it into place.

"Chris! Come with us! Come wiiith us," sang Lea. "You're a lady!"

"There's no room," Chris told her, amused.

"Um, I _make_ room," Lea said drunkenly. "I make room for my lady-friends. I got Dianna lap."

"Yes, Dianna lap is always here for you," said Dianna, with the air of one used to being sat on by Lea.

"Come on!" Lea hissed.

"Well, I have to – um. Climb over Chord somehow," said Chris.

"Jus' sit on my lap," Chord mumbled, quite sensically and audibly for a drunken Chord.

"Yes. _Sit on his lap_!" cried Lea, like a scientist would say _Eureka!_

Chord made an impatient come-on gesture, jerking his hand and catching at Chris's vest with his fingers. It seemed like an accident but Chord tugged at him insistently.

"Are you in or out, Chris?" asked Cory.

"Ugh, in, I guess," grunted Chris.

He was really too buzzed to feel much of a sense of embarrassment as he very unsmoothly and unsuavely clambered into the cab and wound up chest-to-back with Chord; he could only vaguely hope there weren't paparazzi taking pictures of them all drunk and in piles. He glanced up at Cory, who was shaking his head bemusedly as he shut the taxi door for them and waved them on.

Dianna was the only one with enough sense to tell the cabbie the name of their hotel, and she had to repeat it twice; Amber had clapped both hands over her mouth and had dissolved into a fit of giggles, laughing her ass off at Chris as he wiggled himself around on Chord's lap uncomfortably, pelvis all too accustomed to swiveling these days. There was just about no way he could sit without feeling like he was flattening Chord, ass way too snug to Chord's junk for his own comfort.

He had, yes, kind of gotten used to dropping onto Chord's knee here and there in an almost delicate way, but sitting like this, crammed up next to Amber while his body draped all along Chord's, was like a weird reverse of how he'd sprawled on Chord drunkenly at the beginning of the tour. This time Chord was the one who'd had too much to drink – but it didn't stop him from wrapping a long, awkward, lumbering arm around Chris's waist. It was warm and heavy, but friendly. Chris slowly relaxed back onto Chord with something like relief.

"Okay, I see how it is, I see how it is with y'all. No one wants on my lap," Amber joked.

"I do. But I'm stuck, look at this," said Chris. He patted Chord's muscled forearm.

"New booty's got you on lockdown. You okay, Chordy?"

Chord didn't answer.

Seriously, Amber said, "You better hope he doesn't throw up. It'll be all down the back of your neck."

Chris felt Chord's chest hitch, and cried out, "Why would you say that, Amber?? Why would you even put that possibility out into the universe? Why would you plant that suggestion in his head?"

Amber cackled. But it became obvious after a moment of all the girls chorusing _eeuuwww_ that Chord was only laughing, breaths whuffling against Chris's bare neck.

An electric charge ravaged straight down Chris's spine; there against the side of his throat, he could feel the soft grit of Chord's beard like a threat under somewhat recently-shaved skin, and each labored, humid breath Chord was huffing out on him, halfway between laughing and just drunk. Chris's skin prickled responsively, light goosebumps crawling over his arms. He could smell the alcohol on Chord's breath, just as he'd been able to smell orange juice on his lips weeks ago, and it wasn't exactly pleasant, but something about it combined with the smell of sweat on Chord's neck, his cologne and cigarette smoke from the club... it was all sharp and hot and made him feel weak-kneed, even though he was slumped back with his knees hooked over Chord's, not having to support himself at all.

The London scenery, if he had even been looking at it, would've blurred like Dianna, Lea, and Amber all did as Chris's focus shifted, hyper-sensitive, to his neck. Chord's nose was brushing clumsily right behind his ear, and it made him flush like that rum and Coke was still surging through him, hitting him where it counted.

He blinked and exhaled, trying to get ahold of himself, but it just felt unusually good. Chord's arm was tucked around him in such a heavy way that it felt like Chord was holding onto him possessively, clinging around him, and Chris let his hand rest on it. The curve of Chord's lips brushed at his collar.

Chris was sober enough to know it was all just drunken jostling, their respective inertias colliding, but tipsy enough not to care. It was just a moment in time. Amber was elbowing him in the ribs as she spoke. Lea was talking so loudly, it had to be the most annoying ride the cabbie had taken all day. They were in London, one of the most amazing cities in the world, and his life was insane. A dream. But he was totally tuned out on all that – all his senses cared about was Chord. He turned his head slightly and Chord's nose bumped his ear; his fingertips grazed over the back of Chord's hand and through the silky, light hair that began at his wrist and Chord sighed.

"Feathers in your hair," he mouthed at Chris, laughingly.

"Yep," Chris laughed back.

"They soft?"

"Yep."

"Can I feel?"

"Sure."

An inarticulate hand pawed at his hair, somewhat in the vicinity of the feathers Ashley had put in for him but half covering his forehead, warm and slightly sweaty. It made Chris snicker. Chord was so awkward.

"Choooord," interrupted Lea loudly. Chord didn't seem to hear her; he patted Chris's hair, which was still loaded with product from the show hours earlier, in search of the feathers. "Chordy has... the best lap. Besides you, Dianna! The best boy lap. He! Chord! He let me sit on his lap! At the Golden Globes! Remember? I was wearing that really heavy pink dress..."

"I remember," said Chris. "You were drunk then, too."

"Yes, I was. That was when I discovered... Chordy has the best lap," declared Lea.

"Yeah, I – I wouldn't know. I'll take your word for it," Chris said, a tinge of heat that had nothing to with rum and Coke rising in his face. Chord had found the feathers and was fondling them curiously, along with defined locks of his thickly styled hair, curling his fingers through Chris's hair slow and clumsy. Against the back of his neck, he felt Chord's pointy nose and pillowy mouth, and as the taxi turned a corner and they all swayed like one tipsy well-choreographed ocean, he felt the bulge of Chord's zip under his ass.

For a second, he was taken aback and caught his breath, tensing, as he hadn't felt anything but his own awkwardness and desire to wiggle his hips so they wouldn't be offensively close until just then – and it was jarring, to suddenly feel the heat of a guy's package right up snug against him like that.

Then Chris gave himself a harsh reality check. It was just the zipper of Chord's jeans, bunched up. He tore his attention back to the girls.

"You, lady, are drunk. Drunk. I behaved myself," Amber was saying. Lea was sobbingly laughing into Dianna's hair. They didn't even seem to realize Chris was on his own personal perverted roller coaster ride.

He tried to relax again, settle, not care.

But that's when it became obvious to him that it wasn't just Chord's zip. No way. It was too warm, too obvious, too – familiar. It was Chord. Chord was half-hard in his jeans with Chris there on his lap, pressed against him with no room to sit on one knee or even sideways, so Chord couldn't have hidden it or kept Chris from feeling it even if he'd been sober enough to realize, sober enough to try. Or maybe if he was sober, this wouldn't be happening; Chord would be coherent and in control of his dick and Chris would be in a cab with Ashley instead.

All at once, Chris shut himself down. He was going to ignore it, or at least give no indication he felt it at all. It was the least he could do. It wasn't Chord. It wasn't. It was just the alcohol and the way their bodies were so close, moving together, and if Chord remembered this in the morning, he would be sick, embarrassed, pissed off. Where was their hotel, anyway? Were they really far from it, still? Chord seemed like he was weathering the ride by tucking his face into Chris's neck. He'd grabbed at Chris's bicep with the fingers that had been fiddling with his feathers. Spikes of nervousness needled at Chris's consciousness. It wasn't going away. He could feel Chord's dick, lazily boned against the muscle of his ass, caught in his pants slightly to the left.

It was another ten minutes, at least, before their taxi pulled up at their hotel and they piled out, Chris first. Chord's hat had fallen off again at some point, and he didn't seem to have noticed, managing to pry himself out of the cab and leaving it behind on the back of the seat. Again, Chris leaned to grab it, and Chord staggered towards the lobby with Amber and Lea while Chris and Dianna pooled their pounds together to cover the fare.

"Boy, is your face red," Dianna told him on their way in.

"Yes, it tends to be," Chris replied, nervously twirling Chord's hat in his hand.

"It's precious," Dianna assured, reaching up to pat his face, which felt fiery now that someone who wasn't tipsy, embarrassed, and kind of turned on was touching it.

"That's why Ryan cast me. My red, red face of perpetual humiliation."

Amber was waiting for them, with Chord's arm around her shoulders. He looked like he didn't want to be standing, hunched slightly at the waist.

"That's my hat," he said, noticing it in Chris's hand.

"Chris, take this boy's drunk ass to his room," she told Chris in her Mama Amber voice, which just made him move to obey. Chord's arm curled around his neck.

"Okay, come on, Bam," Chris said, leading the way. It wasn't anything new to make sure Chord was tucked in, really, and though he was more slender he knew he was probably better-equipped to support a big muscly drunk guy like Chord up to his room than Amber or tiny little Dianna.

The usual hotel staffer was manning the lift; Chris had tried to talk to him about the royal wedding twice already, but it was old news and he didn't seem to care about anything besides Pippa Middleton's backside anyway, so this time he just smiled and said, "What's your room number, Chord?"

Chord, who probably couldn't even remember his own phone number right then, had to dig around in his wallet for his key and show it to the elevator guy.

"Ninth floor it is, sir."

The lurch of the lift as it rose made Chord moan.

"Hang in there," Chris said, patting his back.

"Sorry about this," said Chord, hand swatting in the air as if he was trying to gesture to something specific, although Chris had no idea what.

"Whatever. It's Mark's fault," said Chris.

"Yes, it is!"

After a pointer from the elevator guy, Chris and Chord made their way to Chord's door, where Chris snatched the key and opened it up for him rather than let Chord try and fail to get the thing in the slot. It had a fussy-looking gold-embossed _Please Do Not Disturb_ sign hanging on the knob, and inside, it was messy; Chord had obviously made himself at home. He hadn't been in Chord's room in this hotel. Like his own room, it was smaller than some of their other big fat American McMansion rooms had been, but Chord's guitar was out of its case and propped in the corner, his laptop was on the half-sized desk, and his fluffy white blankets were mostly dragged off the bed. There were a couple of water bottles and Emergen-C on one of the two bedside tables. The lamp was on, but the light of it was dim and yellow. Some dirty clothes were strewn around, and that fact alone made the room smell different than the hallway or his own room. The room smelled like Chord.

"You should drink some water, if you can," Chris told him, taking him to the bed, where Chord collapsed and immediately tried to fight his way out of his jacket. 

Taking pity, Chris grabbed a sleeve and helped him out of it, and no sooner than had he taken it and put it aside, hat neatly on top of it, than Chord said, "C'mere."

"You need something?" Chris asked, fully prepared to be water boy or whatever. 

Chord tossed his head. "Here. Over here."

Chris took the three or so steps back to Chord, who was lounging back heavily with his weight on both hands, knees in a wide-open V.

"C'mere," he repeated, head tilting drunkenly.

"I'm right in front of you."

"I know, but you should be _here_ , like, on my lap," said Chord bluntly.

"What?" Chris asked, a strange thrill grabbing him deep in the belly.

"My lap. Come get on my lap."

After an excited beat, Chris moved quickly, kneeing up on the mattress and straddling Chord's lap full-on, his heart knocking high in his chest. Chord blinked up at him slowly, intently, his face flushed but so frustratingly slack that Chris couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"What, so... you like me on your lap?" he asked, planting both hands on Chord's broad shoulders.

Looking dizzy, Chord just exhaled in response, his mouth tightening then going giving and pink and fat again. With his hands where they were, Chris could feel him breathing from the belly up to his shoulders, feel the way his shoulders pushed up along with his chest.

"Or no?"

Chord swallowed audibly.

"Chord..." he pressed deliberately, voice husky with doubt. 

Chord's chest raised high as he inhaled again harshly, quickly. For a few moments he just breathed, breaths starting to sounding frantic, near panic, and Chris thought he'd pushed too far, pushed at the wrong time or something – then he closed his eyes and huffed, "It's crazy."

"... Crazy good?" Chris suggested, stomach tightening nervously like it did when he was standing on the steps by the stage, taking in the roar of the crowd and waiting for his cue to go on and sing his solo.

Chord nodded once.

"I like it too," Chris said, trying to speak plainly and honestly.

That seemed to help; Chord sighed roughly, "I wanna keep being your friend."

"Me too. I mean, I want us to be friends," Chris murmured, his stomach twisting.

Even though he was straddling Chord, sitting there on him, staring at him, Chris still somehow wasn't expecting it when Chord straightened and took his hips clumsily in hand, fitting them close again, like they'd been in the taxi only front-to-front. 

Chris's knees weakened helplessly. If he'd been standing, he would've gone down like an anvil. He clung around Chord's shoulders with one arm and just tried to keep upright, knowing Chord could feel him flushing hard in his tight jeans, whatever self-restraint that had kept him from boning up every other time he'd been in Chord's lap blown away by what was going on. His face burned.

He really didn't get what was happening; he felt drunk, but it was more on his own hormones and feelings running haywire at the slightest invitation than the one drink he'd had. He had no idea what he was doing or what Chord was doing, but whatever it was, it felt new and raw. He'd never exactly been the climb-into-a-guy's-lap type.

Emboldened that this all seemed to be somehow kosher even though it was still way over the line, Chris dropped his forehead onto Chord's hair and tucked his hand between their thighs, grasping over the inseam of Chord's jeans and making a harsh noise cut out of his throat.

"Are you hard too?" Chris whispered, dragging his palm knowingly to the left until he found the answer he was looking for. Yes. Yes, Chord was hard, too. Hard and warm and bulging into the curve of Chris's hand.

" _Augh_ ," was what Chord got out, sounding simultaneously shocked and like it felt good, what Chris was doing.

"Is this bad?" Chris asked, knowing everything they were doing was making a sticky situation even stickier, fully aware that not only was Chord straight, but he had a girlfriend, but only really caring right then if Chord didn't want what was happening.

He was rewarded with a hoarse, "No... _no_..."

And Chord curled in on his shoulder, panting and heaving for air deep from his gut. Chris's body flexed, primed, something in him responding like he'd never responded to anything before. He wanted this more than anything, wanted to rub Chord through his jeans and make him feel as frantically excited as Chris felt. Body heat and friction made the denim under his hand burn deliciously as he rubbed at Chord, dirty, not caring, not thinking about anything but how he could feel Chord getting bigger, stiffer, becoming much more than Chris's hand could cover and much too boned for his jeans.

He paused, cheek rubbing against Chord's warm, slightly sweat-dampened hair, and fumbled blindly for Chord's fly. The zipper came open under the urging of his thumb.

"Fuck," Chord uttered, clearly surprised.

"Do you want me to?" Chris asked, squeezing his eyes shut as if bracing himself for Chord to suddenly back out.

After an uncertain moment, Chord whispered, "Yeah."

Chris's hand shook from sheer desperation as he tried to pressure the button at the waist of Chord's jeans open. The second it popped from its buttonhole, he was pressing his hand flat, sliding it past a bunched-up wrinkle of t-shirt and under the elastic band of Chord's underwear to touch Chord's bare skin, fingertips sliding through crinkly-silky hair. Chord groaned just at that, head tipping back as Chris managed to wrap his hand around the fever-hot, stiff cock he'd rubbed to awkwardly huge hardness. He wanted to moan back just feeling it in his hand, this big straight-guy dick boned up because of him, for him, but instead he just gasped shakily and pulled around it coaxingly, making the stretchy cotton of Chord's briefs bulge.

Chord responded everywhere, in every way, too drunk not to. His thighs and abs tensed wildly under Chris, against Chris. He mouthed, throat strained, "Fuck, aw fuck," and his hands surged up Chris's back, one fisting at the tuck of Chris's shirt into the back of his jeans. Chris could feel the kinetic tension knotting up in his shoulders. Chord's arms were so solid, so strong around him. He felt it in Chord's body, the sudden pull of tension and the way he stopped breathing for an eerie moment before he gasped and came, breath shuddering out, come smearing hot on Chris's knuckles and sliding into his grip, making it slippery and wet.

Every second of it, every heartbeat, every tense jerk of Chord's dick in his hand, Chris memorized, never wanting it to stop. He felt like he was on the hazy edge of coming, himself, without any real friction other than the tightness of his own pants or encouragement other than Chord's hands drunkenly, confusedly gripping at his back. Just feeling Chord's jizz sopping, soaking through the fabric of his briefs, its heat fading to the temperature of their skin... he wanted to feel it forever.

But as Chord's body sagged, Chris delicately let his hand slip out of Chord's briefs again, not wanting to overstay his welcome.

"God," Chord grunted, sounding completely winded, and collapsed abruptly onto his back. Chris, pulled along, arched over him awkwardly with one hand on the mattress, hard in his jeans but accepting without an ounce of question that there was no way Chord was going to reciprocate. He didn't even care. He was already equal parts aroused and amazed that simply sitting on Chord's lap had lead to this.

"Was that good?" Chris asked, in love with the deep flush on Chord's face and the shiny trace of sweat on his cheeks.

Chord, whose eyes were heavily shut, nodded exhaustedly, and Chris allowed himself to linger there in a cat-like sway for another minute, watching Chord breathe and drift.

Finally, he murmured, "Let's get you tucked in."

 

 

It was funny that Chris felt guiltier about crashing in Chord's room than about giving him a drunken handjob, but he concluded he didn't really have a choice. He was so aroused he almost couldn't walk straight and the idea of getting in the lift with the guy or running into fans – or even one of the cast – while his gut ached with need was absolutely off the table.

With a bit of prompting, Chord had twisted his jeans down to his calves and kicked his boots off. Chris had gently pulled the jeans off the rest of the way; Chord's head had hit the pillow and he'd passed out pretty much instantly, still in his socks and t-shirt, his damp, jizz-spattered gray briefs clinging to the tempting shape of his softened dick and stupid tight ass. Chris had covered him to the waist and then backed way off, wondering what to do, instincts completely muddled.

Eventually, since Chord looked down for the count with his face half-mushed into his pillow, Chris slowly took his own boots and jeans off, unbuttoning his purple plaid shirt after a moment of doubt but leaving his white undershirt on. He folded them all so they wouldn't get lost amongst all of Chord's discarded clothes, then flipped the light off and eased his way in the darkness onto the other side of the bed. It wasn't the biggest bed ever, but Chris was careful not to bump into Chord or even lie too close to him as he pulled the blanket onto him, too.

It was true... he did want them to be friends... he didn't want to screw things up... so even as he fell asleep, Chris was careful to keep himself at a distance.

 

 

When he woke up, he didn't know where he was, which happened a lot on tour, but it was dark and there was no alarm going off and he was swimming, still, in thoughtless subconsciousness, unable to fully wake and make sense of the fact that something was pulling at the v-neck of his undershirt.

Fingers. A hand. Warm. Big. It was smoothing its way down Chris's abdomen slowly.

"Chord?" he whispered through a scratchy throat, as memory dawned in its abrupt nerve-wracking way.

"Sleepin' here?" Chord intoned.

"I didn't wanna leave," Chris whispered honestly, still asleep enough to for his voice to be high and girlish.

Chord rubbed at his side in a warm way. They were sharing heat, Chris dimly realized, under the same blanket. He breathed out slowly, head turning toward Chord automatically so he could smell Chord better when he breathed in again. Chord's hand wandered back up his chest as it rose and fell, which was a weird, intimate, nice feeling... to be touched.

"Can I... do this?" asked Chord tentatively.

"Mm-hmm," Chris sighed.

Chord eased an arm around his waist, fingers surging under Chris's shirt to touch his bare ribs, which woke Chris up fully in an instant. Unfiltered, sweet heat bloomed up into his skin. It was only then that he fully understood that Chord wasn't half-asleep, himself, but was focused, touching him gingerly but curiously. The breath he sucked in then was in a wince of arousal surging to his dick without his permission.

"Sorry," Chord whispered. "Did that tickle?"

"No," Chris managed, his voice still hopelessly high. "Feels good."

His belly quivered with jolts of excitement as Chord's hand ghosted over it, the feel of skin-on-skin and Chord's hand so near his hardening dick taking up Chris's entire being.

When Chord actually touched it, grasping it through his underwear clumsily, Chris's spine jerked, sending his legs sprawling, open and on-edge. His moan was just a pathetic whimper. After a second, Chord seemed to interpret all that as good and squeezed at him through the cotton more certainly.

"God, you're totally boned," he said under his breath. Chris couldn't tell whether he was impressed or weirded out or maybe still drunk; his eyelids were fluttering and it was like his entire body was seized in Chord's hand, which felt huge and warm – he couldn't even think through the physical shock.

"Chord," he choked, voiceless.

"Get on me," Chord said intently, taking his hand away.

Chris scrambled against the mattress to obey, throwing his thigh over Chord's lap and feeling Chord grab him around the waist to help haul him in place. Chord's body heat burned against him; their bare thighs rubbed together and, oh, God, Chord was just as hard as he was, he could feel it right up against his own dick.

He groaned weakly. "Like _that_? You want me on your lap – on your dick?"

Chord's hands grabbed at his ass madly, squeezing it full-on and hard, pressing his hips down in a powerful push that had Chris bracing both hands against the headboard lest he knock into it.

"Oh, God," he half-sobbed, dropping his face into Chord's neck as his junk ground, rough and dirty, against Chord's, their briefs catching and stretching awkwardly around their dicks. He arched and rocked slowly on wide-open, frogged thighs, arm muscles going rigid, and Chord led him, strong, fingers shoving the elastic leg holes of his briefs as they pushed the fabric out of the way and gripped his bare ass cheeks. He could hear himself moaning pleadingly and it didn't even seem like him, but no one had ever just manhandled him into frotting himself on them. Even with t-shirts and underwear on he felt halfway like they were fucking, like he was full-on riding Chord, and his brain couldn't handle it, couldn't even think about it like that. "Please, 'm gonna –"

"Yeah, c'mon," Chord breathed.

Chord caught him as his hips stuttered and his dick jerked and he came, Chord's thighs braced under his. It had been so long since he'd gotten off and he'd been so turned on for what felt like so long that it was almost violently huge, the way he pumped helplessly into his briefs, till it was dribbling wetly through the cotton and down the inside of one thigh, sliding freely out a gap in the distended elastic. He choked on his own cries and Chord reached up with one concerned hand to touch his back and bring him down again.

After that, he was boneless, nameless, shaking as hot and hard as he had when he'd been sick, and Chord was the only thing he cared about.

Trying not to just black out, he reached between them and tugged Chord's underwear down one hip as hard as he could, freeing his cock. He wanted to see it but everything was dark. He settled for jerking it, feeling it slightly sticky with what Chord had shot off earlier and slippery from fresh, eager pre-come, and Chord's body tightened tellingly under him.

"Are you gonna come again, Chord?" Chris asked, almost melodically.

This time it spattered up Chris's undershirt, and he drew his fingers silkily up Chord's shaft to choke gently at its neck, urging and urging until Chord seemed to wrack and whisper incoherently. His load clung to Chris's fingers as he let them slide back down his dick slowly, dragging come all over it.

After a heady minute of breathing in the smell of Chord – not just his cologne and heated skin, but his dick, the sharp scent of his come – Chris fell asleep right on top of him.

It was slightly lighter outside the next time he woke; he could see Chord's profile and a slight tinge of gold in his hair but everything else was gray and meaningless. Chord was rolling him over, easy and muscular, covering him there on the bed and weighing him down.

"Fuck, Jesus," Chris muttered nonsensically, throwing an arm around his neck. His briefs were a wreck, stuck to him askew and clingy with sticky, thickened come, but Chord's were around his thighs – he could tell, since his were bare and still opened around Chord's.

It was like a blurry dream. Chord's hands stroked his sides, rucking his shirt up. They cradled his face and his thigh, wandered along to the inside of it and thumbed at the sludge of jizz drying there. Chris's nipples stiffened in confused arousal and when Chord noticed, he fingered one slowly, warming Chris's face up with a blush he didn't even know he had left in him, then bent and sucked it for an all too brief moment, lips cushy and huge.

They breathed in each other's faces as Chord wrestled Chris's briefs down just far enough to be able to rut his cock against bare skin, and Chris just wrapped one leg around his bare ass and followed along, getting slowly but deliriously hard again just realizing that Chord was still turned on... still wanted him.

"Oh my God," he whispered into the dim nearby morning.

"You like that?" Chord asked, sounding throaty but so much like himself, like the Chord everyone in the cast knew, that Chris couldn't help but remember who he was, who they both were, and could only feel increasingly amazed. The head of his dick was brushing against Chord's flat belly and he could feel Chord's balls rolling against his. This was – they were both on _Glee_ – singing in front of huge arenas – getting their pictures taken almost everywhere they went – and doing this together anyway, and no one knew – it was so wrong of them –

"Oh my God," he repeated, a whole different vein of arousal opening up in him. He tightened his leg around Chord and hung on, dazed, knowing none of their other cast mates could or would ever find out about this.

This time Chord came all over him, shooting off against Chris's bare stomach, and he didn't stop humping Chris gently against the mattress until Chris came, too, and the morning was getting brighter – bright enough for Chris to see through tangled lashes the red stain of Chord's cheeks and chest.

 

 

Against all instincts, Chris didn't steal back to his own room; he was afraid the same staffer would be in the lift and somehow look at him and know, just know, he'd basically had sex all night with Chord Overstreet. He could just see that headline on a bunch of British tabloids and hear Ryan Murphy's voice: _What's this I hear about you and Chord, Chris? Does this gossip have any grain of truth to it?_

But Chord was surprisingly relaxed. If he was spooked about the idea of being caught, or even the idea of having done something weird or wrong, or the sight of Chris smeared in come from ribs to thigh, or even just hung over, he didn't show it. He just smiled crookedly, hitched his briefs up, offered Chris the first shower, and followed that up with, "Uh, wanna borrow a clean shirt and stuff?"

"Uh, sure," Chris said.

He dug out some t-shirts and underwear, and Chris picked a completely benign black v-neck and a pair of navy blue briefs, then headed with his jeans to take a shower. In the bathroom, Chord's stuff was mostly out on the counter – his toothbrush, a can of shaving cream, a bottle of DayQuil half-empty. He spotted Chord's shaving kit, a nice brown leather one, and curiously peeked into it. There was an electric razor he hadn't brought an adapter for, Icy Hot patches, some kind of sporty For Men! body wash, an almost-empty tube of Crest Pro-Health Whitening Gel Toothpaste in Fresh Clean Mint squeezed flat in the middle, and amongst some other stuff like floss and spare packets of Emergen-C, two different bottles of cologne. Chris sniffed them both, and they both made his chest ache fondly.

After emerging from his own brief shower, the glint of his beard more obvious in the white morning light, Chord sat himself on the side of the bed to pull on a fresh pair of socks and his boots, and said, "Wanna get breakfast?"

Chris looked up from his phone. He had a few drunk texts from Ashley wanting to know if he'd gotten to his room okay, and was quite belatedly texting her back that he made it fine (smiley face).

"Like... just go down and eat together?"

"Yeah."

"Sure," he said casually. Sure, he could go eat some breakfast wearing a pair of Chord's underwear. After all, he was sitting there at Chord's desk texting Ashley while wearing Chord's underwear. Oh, God, this was so weird.

Tying his boot up, Chord chewed for a minute on the corner of his own mouth, then asked, "Do you still wanna be friends?"

"Uh, of course."

"Cool. I mean, I was thinking... you're probably my favorite person to drink with..."

Chris laughed; he couldn't help it. " _That's_ what you were thinking?"

"Amongst other things. I think lots of stuff," Chord replied, working on his other boot.

"Like what?"

"Like, you know. London is awesome! I really want some of that wheat toast, I'm starving! What's Dublin like?? I can't believe the tour's almost over. I'm _so_ exhausted 'cause I hardly slept all night. Your hands are, like... great. I keep looking at them."

"... Mine?"

"Yeah," said Chord broadly. "They're just really, like, beautiful, because they look like a guy's hands but they're just, like, neat and beautiful and soft and stuff like a girl's too... but they're guy hands."

"You like my hands," Chris said, pink-eared.

"Yeah. They're one of the first things I noticed about you. 'Cause we had to shake hands, like, five times."

"Oh," managed Chris.

"What are you thinking?"

Chris took a pause to try and funnel his messy feelings into something coherent and unassuming, with all the ins or outs Chord could possibly want, now or ever.

"I'm thinking... I'm glad we're friends... and nothing has to change, even though we got a little drunk and..."

"Fooled around?" Chord finished for him.

"Yes," said Chris, and smiled awkwardly. God, he'd had more serious, months-long relationships with a lot less orgasms than he'd had in one night of fooling around with Chord. He wouldn't have called what he and Chord did fooling around at all.

But if that's what Chord wanted it to be, he had no choice but to understand; he wasn't stupid enough to think Chord was about to break it off with Julia Roberts' niece just because he'd gotten drunk and let a gay guy get him off.

Chord was taking an awfully long time tying his shoe. 

After a minute he asked, "Do you wanna maybe do it again?"

With another flush of heat to his ears, Chris clutched at his phone and said, "I believe that's being 'friends with benefits.'"

Chord had been peering up at him, but dropped his gaze again to fiddle with his boot lace.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. But I mean. For the last couple weeks, I kinda thought we were friends with benefits, you know... like... lap benefits. I saw you sit on Kevin's lap once, but. That was just once and I think you were on Ashley's lap that night, too, joking around. But usually you just sit on mine. Right? Like, you don't sit on Darren's or anything."

"Uh, yeah, no," Chris said, a self-conscious blush making his face throb. "Just yours."

"So, can we – still do that?"

Deliberately, Chris asked, "Will you get hard if I sit on your lap?"

"Uh, yeah, probably," said Chord. "I mean, I'm kinda hard just thinking about it."

Chris sighed.

"I want to," he admitted. "But I don't want to wreck anything –"

"Too late," Chord interrupted, with a grin that struck Chris as flirty. "You've already trained me to get wood just thinking about you. It's done! We wrecked it up good. We're friends with lap benefits. So come here."

"Oh, God," Chris groaned. This wasn't good. He knew it wasn't good. And yet, his belly twisted with that stage fright-strength excitement just hearing Chord beckon him and there was a strange but undeniable joy in his heart that Chord somehow, for some reason, against all odds, wasn't grossed out by him.

"Come here," Chord repeated, sitting up straight. He was sitting just where he had been only hours ago, but this time he looked lazy and pleased and mischievous instead of hardly holding himself upright.

"Okay," Chris said, with a great air of relenting. "Since everything is apparently already wrecked."

It was perfect, the way he could perch on Chord's thigh and slide an arm around his shoulder. Chord wrapped an arm around his waist and tucked him right in, humming in satisfaction, lips pulled in a wide smile. It all made Chris feel so, so drunk.


End file.
